We all have our inner toddler fascist rodent living in our skin, but if we feed him/her with poetry and love s/he will grow bored and calm the ceaseless rage of neediness. We need to make connections internally to understand the mayhem inherent in our enemies’ soul. We need to understand the extent of the utter eclipse of empathy by fear and the black hole of need that will suck the life of our existence.
the game of truth or consequences
has no consequence. What does it matter
if insurance agents quote Thoreau? The mass of men
still lead lives of quiet desperation. Guns
are not on sale at the mall. My best friend still
has pancreatic cancer. My other best friend smokes
a stinky cigar he’d like to poke into the president’s
face. Meet the world’s 20 insurance billionaires
is something no one wants to do. Only I am
a narcissist in the post-truth world. Only I understand
tyrants as a kind of fruit that grows on trees, many
of them planted by intelligence. There is no intelligence
in the post-truth world. A small tyrant lives inside
me. I feed him poetry. In the post-truth world, no one
has been shot dead at the movies. Dimpled small white
spheroids do not soar over meadows toward holes marked
by flagpoles. His throat shredded by carcinoma…
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Myriad Ways 