I don't normally post on Sundays, but the events of the weekend this poem out of me. Thanks for reading.
January 29, 2067
The historians remind us, now, how you and yours leveraged your last gasp to make us and ours great--definitions being what they are, fracturable things.
Yours were the days of the news outlets, the reporters, the cameramen and college-educated journalists chasing the facts by the tail, and what are facts but wild dogs, tamed now by the great government then given to The People on a leash. It was the time before the New Iron Curtain was built by the chicken pullers in De Queen or the ranch hands from there to Brownsville, before an avocado cost more than a line of coke or a good night with the women who negotiated affections to stay in this great America. (There are always ways of getting around a wall, they say.) Yours were the days before the brown huddle masses were returned to their wars and rubble, before you crucified the many Jesuses--women-Jesuses, child-Jesuses, honest-men-Jesuses--and left their remains to the many devils.
(At night, I pray "forgive them, Father, they know not what they've done.")
The new Oligarchs have won our hearts, now. For free whiskey and all the American flags we could drink, they worked their ways into our homes, and we came to count them as friends, and if not friends, at least kind, and if not kind, at least as stern fathers who might excuse our drunkenness so long as we waived our flags and paid the poll tax.
Your people might call this greatness jingoism or xenophobia--definitions being what they are these days, fracturable things--but The People see past small notions of equality, now. We are called The Patriots, and we were fashioned by strongmen, by paid-for history, by the projection of fears you harbored in secret without speaking, without acting,
action being divisive as it was,
action being destructive as it was,
action being revolutionary as it was.
And what are revolutionaries but people whose bones are scattered as forgotten martyrs?
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