Bullies, Terrorists, and Congressmen: Ten for Today


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My head aches with the world, swollen with the chaos and calamity of it. No salve of good will and transcendent detachment patches the soreness, the inflammation, and the throbbing anger.

When I reactively shout at him, my father’s happy. Negative attention is better than none. I’ve raised my children, done my job outmaneuvering ration-less beasts. Why do they appear in full grown men’s bodies now? I’m mad that I can’t return to my former childless self—be the child and not the parent.

And then that runaround with the country of Kaiser. Institutions are built to crush people who pay for them, give them their existence. Medicine is meant to be waved before the eyes of the sick, taunting, “Catch me if you can.” I hated when boys stole a poor unsuspecting victim’s wool hat and played keep away, tossing it just above the desperately grabbing hands reaching for it.

I’m not alone in this now perceived defect, empathy. Yet, it drains the very peace from me, feeling it all, the hands of every eternally colonized American—women, children, people of color, and the poor—with raised hands clutching at their wool hats—respect, pay, opportunity, voice, healthcare, food, dignity—just out of reach by bullies gleefully foaming at the mouth as they expand their world by shrinking others’.

Always a zero sum game to psychotics, paranoids, terrorists, and congressmen.

Horror and Music

  

 

 
You want horror? I’ll give you horror.
 
You want music? How about a dirge?

How about the feeling of feeling nothing?

Not fear or love or even boredom. Not feeling.

How horrible would that be? Or maybe not.

How about brain tumors and skin cancer?

Who doubts rectal cancer’s horror, rotting from

the inside out, reeking inverted guts exposed?

What about bloat, the Great Dane disease,

their intestines twist-knotting them to death?

And perfect lovers meeting at the worst time,

both stuck inextricably in others’ lifeless lives?

Shattered happiness is horror, potential lost,

Losing a child or a loved one’s murder, terror.

How do you recover from sending your child 

off to school just to find her dead, shot up by

a murderer festering in a room, a closed door

emerging for a brief fatal foray out of alienation?

I cannot write any greater horror. Unimaginable.

How to write horror stories worse than the real?

Controlled horror in letters would play us God.

We can manage and shape–to know the ending. 

To know: Coping with horror is to make it. Write.