The silence
I don’t really like the park like this—everything is winter deadly— infused in sickly browns, even the vigorous ducks, under dark clouds Transitions hurt There’s often been a sickly side to our politics—for instance, in 1951, the McCarthy era, Thomas Mann saw the fascists take control again and, in panic and disgust, fled Southern California for Switzerland She loves me now, attaches herself to me, thinks there’s nowhere else to be Jean-Paul saw through their surfaces, to their cores of bitterness and greed beneath well-tailored suits Newsreel footage of the Nazis, originally shot as Nazi propaganda An incredulous newscaster in American English intones over pictures of the bastards in church “And they thought God was on their side” The true philosophers of that era, the 1930s, taught us that fine sounding bourgeois values can’t be trusted or even taken seriously—that politicians will say anything Lives narrow in time— trapped like an egg in its shell, careful as a wolf in the woods like a rich tender density repressed within a surface placidity, so tight, colorless and weary When the initial love thrill goes, as it must, some leave, some stay, some moderate, and some break away Last night I dreamt I wasn’t, anymore, afraid of death We are bizarre, unstable, unlikely, improbable— contingent before birth, after life, coiled in a mirage of status and control—roiled expeditiously within the silence that surrounds us
-December 30, 2016-