Comes to pass my picture of the Middle East
(one minute and twenty one seconds of television news,
much less than I had thought)
is an inaccurate representation of people
and the individuality of their experience.
How does one measure the merit of
I am offended?
If all I know are snapshots, misdirecting
the issue, changing path to digest murdered cartoonists
killed with Allah in mind
(another misdirection)
and I am not outraged.
Sadness manifests as thick fog
blocking artificial light, splitting the rays,
opening up and flexing, the truth as is,
the sole truth we must attain;
we are slow, dying creatures.
Inborn freedoms dissolve.
Did Salman Rushdie beg forgiveness for
images of his head book-ending a spear,
or did he die a little in secret?
Suppose I am a rouser marching the streets of
New York City, a gold pendant of two
falling towers adorning
my chest-cave, Je Suis etched into my forehead
(black felt-tip).
Do you defend me?
Relish in your torment of words?
Will you bury the fire in your belly
for sake of freedom?