the w h i t e paper thin, c r i s p against tips of fingers with the t h i n n e s t lines of gold the burnt umber to the brown to the beige to the white to the black black black i n h a l e suddenly i'm alive i know because i can feel something (anything) then the e x h a l e each cycle a moment suspended in time the wisps of smoke transient unique and finally the smell an a n c h o r.
i'm sad. i'm hurt. i'm disappointed. you raised me to lean into truth. you taught me right from wrong, and stressed above all things k i n d n e s s and love. and today you align yourself with a man utterly lacking integrity. a man that openly mocks the disabled veterans and ****** assault survivors. you defend this man in public and i am so confused. so s t u n n e d. and i have been q u i e t for hundreds and hundreds of days ruminating trying to figure out if you have always been this other person.
a hungry man on the corner cinnamon graham crackers mom, tattoos, and tears... tears streaming for death past and death future. for life future. for life now. gramma. violet. a child laughing, laughing so hard she sounds utterly maddened. stories and lights and wax and wretched, wretched life.
once fear takes hold it spreads like fire all consuming seemingly alive and unstoppable.
i am not immune.
and neither are you.
i can almost hear the horseman rattle as the stampede decends
“the mexicans are coming!”
The MEXICANS are COMING “Now!” “Build a wall!” “Man the **** deck!” “Take the children!”
i’m no *****. if the POTUS is screaming to take cover from ms-13, i listen. here’s the key, people. listen. research. react. don’t do it in any other order. my elementary teachers taught me about primary and secondary sources. i’ve been practicing my entire life.
and i can tell you, that immigration from the southern border has been in a steady decline for a decade.
the POTUS’S own people identified less than 200 ms-13 gang members caught illegally going over the border.
immigrants are less likely to commit crimes than the rest of the population.
if you’ve never felt absolutely e x c r u c i a t i n g maddening \breathless\ pleasure... then i’m not sure what exactly you are doing with your life.
imagine, if you will, that as the first four notes of Hits From The **** drift into consciousness, you see ahead, approaching fast, a beautiful upsweep of snow, a delicate cyclone that moves itself quickly from non-existence to existence and back.
women! we must unify and acknowledge that it is WE who are the creators, the nurturers, the peacemakers, and it is time for our unique power to be unleashed on a world run amuck. and we are |one|
i imagine us, my friends my family in need of asylum the unthinkable happening to us and wondering the lengths we would go to for each other and no imaginary government boundary could keep me from trying to save my family. i try to imagine my niece and nephew getting separated from my brother and sister put into an old Wal-Mart with fluorescent lights and metal cages surrounded by strangers with no comfort or stability that comes from being with those who love you enough to risk everything to save you. but my mind will not allow it. it is too unjust too disturbing and I don’t know how to wake myself from this nightmare.
like a puzzle or iron man suit with sleek interlocking pieces i see now that i write so i can see myself backward and forward 360 the paper is the reflected glass and the words a representation of the state of the inner self.