The page isn’t blank. I long
for a time when the world won’t break us:
The strong cannot always be the reassembled seeking vengeance.
Wasn’t there some time in my American childhood,
when we felt whole? I used to look in the mirror
but that was before our teacher explained modernism.
Have you ever had a moment where you’ve wanted to hug your teenage self?
No love - from the skies above we cannot love.
As I get older, I look towards the future more.
I used to find so much funny:
"Let’s go." They don’t move.
First as tragedy then as farce… except I was brought up pretending nothing was new.
For me, there was never a tragedy only farce. The tragedy happened
long ago, before we were born, centuries ago. The British did it.
It is over. Nothing can be done; there is no alternative.
If we walk side by side staring at the same thing long enough
we’ll remember we shouldn’t be riding our bikes behind the tractor spraying ddt
and in a few years we’ll blame our parents and a few years later realize they didn’t know either.
The guides we sought were funded by the Ford Foundation;
I like Jackson Pollock, but there’s more to 60s art
than what the museums frame.
Justice should be inexpensive, yet it is demanded we wait, walk miles
across the great sandy desert of politics, a result of climate change,
or maybe because Jefferson’s fucking tree wasn’t watered:
The rules were unjust from the start; the dream only existed for 30 years:
wealth is inherited unequally, dad left, and too many teachers are racists.
Hurricanes hit, but mysteriously the lights in Goldman Sachs stay on.
The Danish have protested again: I hope some people made new friends
and read the Federalist Papers and learned ‘special interests’ were meant to govern us.
My favorite works of nonfiction were never completed
suggesting to me that its history, though appearing to have ended,
will open again like the meaning of word we once thought obvious:
the word is the same, but it means something radical.