24th
we live in the face of machine guns.
we find no way to dodge the whining bullets,
the hailstorms pin us regardless of reflexes.
now our identities are meaningless,
a target is a target, nothing more,
our paths are shaped from birth til death
by forces that we cannot control.
clouds of bullets guide us,
the walls of a maze.
the big men oversee it all, holding the keys
and monitoring all inputs and outputs,
but it is we who carry out the instructions,
slapping labels on each other,
snarling out insults, kicking each other into
the ground, manning the automatic weapons
in every public and private space.
we’re in a dark forest,
a dark social and political landscape,
something nasty might lurk behind every tree.
we have to check them, glancing around night
and day, tiptoeing in case of land mines.
paranoid is survival. we’re so damaged
we spend all our time inspecting ourselves,
staring at the mirror and the big red
concentric circles on our faces.
we’ve tried to scrub them off,
but it has been well established that
the symbol means shoot.
i’ve taken a hundred lead bullets in my life,
shot through the head by close associates,
classmates and my ilk. freedom is a sad word,
full of nostalgia for childhood and mythical
worlds. war has gripped our country by its throat,
for years, decades, centuries for all i know,
it’s war for jobs, for schools, for friends,
shoot or be shot, the wounds fester in time
i warn you. you can’t avoid being gunned down,
coming out the womb in this age
is like climbing out of a trench in 1915.
you may not die physically,
but what was human is gone when they rip
you apart like a junky toy.
function is impaired, sleep is nightmare
after nightmare, you’re afraid to use
your voice, afraid it might draw more shots.
the scar tissue makes you tired,
you wake up in the morning and
nothing is worth doing anymore.
at that moment
it is time for retreat,
to turn away and redraw the map,
leave anyway possible.
the bullets will remain lodged
but it is possible to forget
why they’re there in the first place.
that one flickering flame of light
stays lit even when all else has been
extinguished. wildflowers grow back
after a volcanic blast. life’s cycles
bring constant renewal.
i have been searching through the forests
and the mountains, the rivers, valleys,
and constellations, looking for what
fell out when i took a spill in their hands.
in my hands i bring back tinder and kindling,
and large logs for a bonfire.
one spark can ignite a mountainside.
it is better to light a candle than curse the darkness.
