Pull a knife through the masterpiece, or army dreamers
All the turmoil… is there a word for the self-inflicted insanity and danger some egomaniacs have put us all in? They won’t pay a price for it. They’ll go on TV and lie about it, and say half-truths, and claim victories, either pyrrhic or false, and say how great everything is. The alcoholic in charge of the military nearly said that War was Peace.
And where is the outrage? Americans may think that everyone buys their bullshit, but they don’t. The world is watching as a country hell bent on destroying the world goes to the beach, fires up the barbeque, believes that somehow in the next election all will be fixed. Too much comfort maybe, is the valium that Americans drink down in their giant coffees, their super-sized fries filled with pesticides, their big SUVs made to park at Walmart and buy shit.
There’s nothing to say. I have been protesting, and I’m glad I’ve turned up. Now it’s clearly time for a national strike. Or something. Or to just tell them all to fuck off, and go and live life for a little while until they make it impossible to do so.
No one can plan. People are planning, but even inveterate planners are finding little pleasure in thinking of next year’s holiday, or so it seems. As none of us know what is going to happen, that makes sense. The USA is under the control of thieves and rogues and fools and they decided to drop a bomb. Great. Watching people act as though that’s a good thing does focus the mind. What to put in a bag? Who do I want to speak to? Who do I want to stop wasting any more precious minutes with? Is there a way to stop them?
And now I’m supposed to submit poems, or short stories? Really? I don’t want to break into a world where people are normalizing this insanity. Forget it. I’ll read my poems to the squirrels. It’s a shame though. I was happy when people were reading my books, when a short story was accepted, when a good poet saw something in my scribbles. I keep thinking of that Ukrainian woman who went to get her hair dyed red after surviving yet another missile attack on her city. Here – people are sad if they are sold out of the hot dog brand they like. Time to not pay attention to people that bore me. Someone called me judgmental. Well. Maybe so. Maybe time to focus on what is pleasing and what makes sense to my screaming soul. I like watching birds. The way morning air can feel on your skin. The smile of a woman who looks like she emerged from the past, to come out on the street and watch the river move with the tide. A dog wanting a biscuit. To read about a woman who has courage in the face of tragedy – and persists.
Give it all up. No, that’s what they want. Limited success, only joy that can be bought and sold – by them, only stories that are permitted to be told – because they make money. They want us enraptured by the rapture they promise to bring, fireballs, flames and blood. They hate nature, they hate women, they hate anything different to their white bread ugly selves.
A country built on racism always had a fatal flaw. I’d still rather see a resurrection of the souls and spirits they crushed, or tried to, then some fake narrative about making the country great. Look at them. If they are the leaders of greatness, then no thank you. I’ll take failure and disassociation from the status quo any day.
Fuck them and their wars on people, their racist thugs with bandannas and khakis, whose stomachs fold over their waistbands, who punch kids in the throat while pushing them into the back of trucks, then claim they were the victims, as they parade around in the 21st century version of Klan outfits.
No, I’ll push back and fight. On my terms. For me. No more simpering smiles for people who think they have power because of money or an ability to lie to a wide audience.
Fuck all of them.
