whatcha gonna do, fire me?
i am so over you acting like you have a corner on viewpoint, on conclusions, on what this life is supposed to be about…hatin’ on other people? taking from the innocent the very marrow of their lives? resurfacing war zones into capitalistic ventures that would serve the rich in something beyond the riviera and once they tire of the blasts of sun they can hitch a trip to mars and see the world from a distance they have dreamed of, that distance that removes them from the very idea of gravity, and for what? to be on the list in some wikipedia entry of billionaires who have been to the red planet? give me a break.
and give me a break, all you pandering journalists who are now two-stepping with the new administration and showing the ironic photo of ‘rump surrounded by little girls and young women that he is evidently protecting from the transgendered, who it is suggested are out to slay every medal on the track and every ribbon in the meet. like the reason children want to be on a team is to plow down the competition instead of being a part of a group that will help them feel like they belong. it’s all part of the plan to keep the genders specific so the men can be men, don’t you see?!
and to hell with the masses of people who are hungry because of the droughts that climate change has accelerated and to the families who are coping with AIDS on top of crops that have been fried. to hell with the civil servants who volunteer at their children’s schools and whose home owner’s insurance just got cancelled because it’s what the stock holders want and the pharmaceutical companies that empty their pocketbooks because the chronic pain of the migraines needs to be managed so they can show up at the job interfacing with the angry taxpayer until the letter inviting them to retire now, or forever hold their peace, shows up in their inbox. with a deadline. so that’s who you are? the person that decides the worth of an individual based on how much they can contribute to the per capita average of the country you promise to make great again? you call this your finest hour? the manic crash cart of your undoings is not going to be what pulls me under.
what pulls me under is going to be the incredible invisible forces that have been waiting deep in the recesses of my soul and which are coming through in my dreams and girding my intentions.
I’m sorry for whatever has shackled your shrunken heart. AND YET, I am BEYOND CERTAIN that what goes around comes around.
As long as space endures
As long as there are beings to be found
May I continue likewise to remain
To drive away the sorrows of the world.
One last thing. Three words. Four syllables. Emphatic.
