I
have so many
worlds inside my head
I
need so many
screams to stop the dead
I
watched so many
hearts turn black from red
I
took too many
breaths to leave this much unsaid
When the Internet Makes Magic
Utnapishnim, whom the gods made immortal
Dream, always in dream, the past
The past returns, for me to change
And shape into a new future
At eight years old, I didn’t stick up
For dirty Benji Brown
At night, my eyes go wild
And I help him fight the fifth graders
He asks if we can be friends
At night, afloat, I smile and tell him thanks for asking
At sixteen years old, I wanted it so bad
So often and with everyone
At night, my lids tremble
And I take it slow and with curiosity
I make it like a sacred circle of trees
At night, under covers, with the bedroom windows open, it’s holy
At twenty-four years old, I thought I knew death
Was sure it had something to do with ego
At night, my temp drops
And I only hope to wake up in balance
And still breathing
At night, surrounded by pillows, I imagine life free of measurement and rulers
Dream, always in dream, the past
The past awaits, to shape me
Into these unknown, bifurcated futures
An Election Tale (from Anne Boyer)
https://anneboyer.substack.com/p/an-election-tale?utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=email&utm_source=copy
To wake each day to discover that it is the day of election, as it has been every day of one’s life — to find that the end has come, that the tricksters have tricked, that the tabulators will tabulate, the balloons will drop, the conceders will concede, and that the victorious will once again by midnight declare victory in a battle that in the morning will begin again — is to wake each day as a president whether a person would like to be one or not.
National treasure, that Anne Boyer…
Edward Vidaurre
From Pandemia & Other Poems, 2020, Aztlan Libre Press. https://aztlanlibrepress.com/pandemia-by-edward-vidaurre/
Gutenberg’s Dilemma
I used to draw pictures of eyeballs
upon every wall of the house.
They were mostly human,
but sometimes other animals
made the wall;
a goat, a panda, a snake.
I used them
as a reminder
that I might only exist
within the gaze of others.
Sometime in middle adulthood,
I began to draw the eyes
with their eyelids closed,
daring my sense of self
to evaporate accordingly.
It wasn’t until years later,
after examining the eyes
with the eyes of an old man,
that I realized how much time had passed
and how hard it is
to accurately capture anything
with one’s eyes closed.
Understandably,
my self grew weary of its story
without others’ input
and so I began experimenting
with mirrors and diaries.
Soon, my notes
grew to become a book.
I divided the chapters
by reflected body part: Ear, Shoulder, Heel, Wrist.
After finishing the book,
I used it to recreate myself
from prior words and illustrations.
Now, here we are,
reading myself into being.
I will be sure
to credit you
in the Acknowledgments.
Herculaneum
when you watch the sun blot out,
you lose yourself to stone*
and dirt
and bone
and hurt.
you lose yourself to the mirror
that shows you aren’t the hero,
that shows you without powers
or skills or knowledge
to save your people
from extinction.
your people need the sun,
the light,
the sky,
their people.
your people,
our people,
we watch the sun disappear
without a proper goodbye,
all together,
huddled,
a.d .lo.e
……………..
……………………….
……………………..
………………
…………………………..
………………..
…………………
*hat tip to https://theweesmirk.wordpress.com/2020/09/18/pompeii/ for this couplet as a prompt
The Last Hunters
We are the last hunters.
We deploy tricks.
We shoot to kill.
We track without pause.
We cut and cut, a field dress.
And when the hunt is done,
we eat.
Weeping While Melting
This is the way romance engulfs:
with air that tastes like burning
and eyes that penetrate like
long-buried memories of forgotten,
backseat lovers.
This is why we have moral majorities.
I never said, “I can’t do this.”
Still, you glared at me for an eternity
and when you blinked,
I shifted shapes:
a man,
a child,
a silent forest,
a flower with no petals.
I blinked away
from in front of you
into your mind
where you could be
somewhat left alone with your thoughts.
“I love you,”
you whispered to yourself.
“I always will.”
You once told me what would happen when the end arrived.
You told me the gulls would fly backwards
and the moon would split into separate, but equal, parts.
Still, we danced.
We laughed.
We approched every apocalypse
as trained eschatologists.
Now, in the deep recesses
of your fractured memories,
I still sit surprised
by how warmly you welcomed
those frightening flames.
Q is a Nazi Cult, Rebranded
A secret cabal is taking over the world. They kidnap children, slaughter, and eat them to gain power from their blood. They control high positions in government, banks, international finance, the news media, and the church. They want to disarm the police. They promote homosexuality and pedophilia. They plan to mongrelize the white race so it will lose its essential power.
Does this conspiracy theory sound familiar? It is. The same narrative has been repackaged by QAnon.
I have studied and worked to prevent genocide for forty years. Genocide Watch and the Alliance Against Genocide, the first international anti-genocide coalition, see such hate-filled conspiracy theories as early warning signs of deadly genocidal violence.
The plot, described above, was the conspiracy “revealed” in the most influential anti-Jewish pamphlet of all time. It was called The Protocols of the Elders of Zion. It was written by Russian anti-Jewish propagandists around 1902. It collected myths about a Jewish plot to take over the world that had existed for hundreds of years. Central to its mythology was the Blood Libel, which claimed that Jews kidnapped and slaughtered Christian children and drained their blood to mix in the dough for matzos consumed on Jewish holidays.
In related news regarding the erosion of critical thinking: