For Gore and Amiri
The term “post-truth” implies
That it was ever told.
Yes it was waved over
Like a censer above,
Implied in the strongest,
Least uncertain terms,
But there was always a line
And whoever it was
On the hot mic at the time
Knew not to cross it.
Now it is dealt freely
Because it has no power
To compel belief any more
-- That’s a thing for gunpoint,
The thing done in war you may not
Be especially proud of,
But at least you can say
You survived,
-- Although that too is a lie,
As you’d know
If you were able to think
And feel anymore.
The mists came so slowly,
The word of it so easy
To dismiss, as it came from the others
With strange colors and accents,
It was fun, in fact, to bully the weak,
To go along with the blitzkrieg
That never seemed so wrong
As long as it was funny
And you didn’t take it seriously,
But in the end
They cared more about you than
You did yourself,
And it got a bit old when the bombs
You kept dropping never worked
And the puny ones stood with arms upraised
To stare you in the eyes
And ask “why aren’t you human?”
But, by then your dreams
Of vengeance had turned to self-defense
And the opportunity to change
Became the threat you had to gird
Your loins to rise above.
The whole thing went down
As if overnight,
The books were erased,
The rules deformed,
The visible world became
A spurious plank
To base your still-burning sense
Of moral outrage upon;
So justice became the duty
To silence the truth,
Love became the taking away
Of human privileges
From those who believed
That everyone was free,
Everyone was worthy, that there was no
Need to kill or judge or shame.
And soon that was all there was,
As if it has always been this way,
Pure barbarism with the furious assurance
Of a scorned God.
And I, in order to speak with you,
Must utter those truisms
Of genocide and terror you prefer,
As if you had nothing to do
With them, as if they are benign
Because your heart is pure.
Whatever I say, allowed or not,
Doesn’t wake you,
As I would pray, from your stupor,
It only stirs up hatred
For what I represent: a question,
A presumption of freedom,
An uncomfortable feeling that love and care
Are actually knives and guns.
Is there nothing I can do
But nod my head
And applaud your clever wiles
To be able to cut to the front of the line
To rape and be killed? Oh I’m so happy
For you, the lessons
You will learn, so hard! So very important!
You are blessed in the highest
Chambers of God for taking such
A difficult road!
And even this I can’t say,
For you’d remind me how
You don’t believe in woo-woo
Bullshit like that anyway.
So I must leave you now
To firebomb the villages
While I tend to a few
Fruit trees.
I will give you what you ask for,
If never what you need,
The shirt off my back, your weight
On my shoulder …
What happens at this point
Is finally not my fault.
