(It's been ages since I wrote on this blog. But it's time to vent, and move some words around on a page. After the occasion of the Senate tax bill middle-of-the-night vote, December 2, bastard Republicans 51-49. And after Juan Felipe Herrera Enter the Void)
The smell of rubble. Not a smell, really, but a coating and
a choking. The taste of rubble, the grit and crunch between teeth, the clouds
of dust that rise as you move, as things fall, as things pale. Smoke of dust
and bone. Wet things in the rubble, unidentified and terrifying. Accidents of
birth and circumstance. I chose the rubble I stood in but there’s no promise my
walls won’t come tumbling down. What lives felt normal, until they weren’t? I sat
at my computer, calm and quiet, until the building started to shimmy and shake,
and a crack opened by my bed. My nightmares rain rubble. Lina went home to Rome
and one day, in her kitchen, the floor opened beneath her and left her, broken,
in the new rubble of her life. How many children are spitting rubble, or split
and broken from it, unexpectant and incomprehending. Tax plan. Military
spending. Calls and emails and no avail. Military spending. Children broken
into pits of brick and stone and bone and dust and horror and mothers wailing
and brothers digging and the mess sending people fleeing their homes to – not help,
not open arms, not shelter and safety, but to cold and fear and abuse. To be depicted
in lies and fury. When I was six years old my father brought home a family he
found on the side of the road, to live with us for months. Rubble rains down
when you least expect it. You can dig, you can carry, you have to water down that
dust. Spit it out.
Preach...loved it.
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