'Murica

It has now been nearly a week since the school shooting in Newtown, CT, and it is more apparent than ever that our country has no heart. I am not talking about the shooters who murdered innocent children in the halls of their school; I am talking about you. I am talking about me. I am talking about we, the nation in "mourning."

Why the quotations? Well, frankly because we are not in mourning; at least not really. We have cried, or at least some of us did. I know I did. The President did. I hope you did. But how long did you cry? Five minutes? Ten minutes? No more than twenty I am willing to bet. Is that really mourning? I am saying it isn't. I am saying that after those first few hours of shock, the nation did what it does best. It began to capitalize.

Within hours of the tragedy, there were candle lit vigils in front of the White House. But I saw no one crying. I saw no one bent over in the agony of losing precious children. All I saw was a group of people yelling about the control of firearms. Capitalizing. That is not mourning. I am appalled. I am also guilty. You are too.

We have all been in at least a few debates since that day. Whether you are pro gun or anti, you have used this massacre to your advantage. You are hoping to use the emotional high that comes from such horrors to sway someone to your point of view. You woke up the next morning and you walked in on little Tommy or baby Susan and saw them curled up in bed, safe, sound, and very much alive. You then got on Facebook or Twitter and spilled out how fathomless your grief would be if your child was taken from you in such a violent manner. Thirty minutes later you posted something else. Something about guns.

The parents of the lost woke up and had no children to cling to. No one to make eat their cereal. No one to rush to the bus. They woke up to a silent house. Silent until their sobbing dissipated the morning tranquility. They care nothing about the guns. They want their children back. They would let everyone have them if it brought back their child. They would equally take them away if it did the same. But neither action would accomplish this. They are the only ones in mourning and they truly care nothing about guns. (Yet)

Ashamed of yourself? I am. I am ashamed of our country. I am ashamed that a tragedy turns into a lesson on spin politics. I am ashamed that I have been apart of it. I am ashamed that somewhere those parents and teacher's lives are in turmoil and I am signing petitions. But I am most ashamed that I am really not ashamed at all.

You aren't either. Your family is safe. Your children are alive. You realize that this is a turning point of gun policy. We must capitalize on what has happened. If we want to change the laws on gun ownership, we must act now. And so we will, because it takes these kinds of tragedies to spur us to action.

So say a prayer for the lost, grab your picket sign, maybe even grab your gun, and go get 'em tiger. If you want change, you had better be soulless enough to make it happen now.

Go USA.

Winter Lullaby

It was Christmas Eve, and we stood beneath a red neon sign

The snow melted under our feet even as it froze in our hair

She said I would need to smoke before I kissed her or it wouldn't taste right

She lit one for me and watched clinically while my inexperienced

Fingers trembled as I inhaled for the first time

Half way through my cough her lips met mine

They tasted of menthol and smoke and something spicy

I didn't know what to do with my tongue; it seemed rude to

Plunge it between her teeth but she didn't seem to mind as

She grabbed the front of my jacket and tugged me away and

Toward the back seat of her car

An Epitaph

There were never many of us, the intellectuals, to be found within the ranks of the Independent Holiness Movement. Even now in this the Modern Age, the idea of higher education and an ability for the abstract is looked on as a foothold into hell by many of our elders here in the Bible Belt. Now there is one less.

We attended the same Church for about four years and we were never close. Since then I have spoken to him only a hand full of times. But there was an understanding there. We never talked long, but we never had to dumb it down. Something I feel we grew tired of doing.

What do you say when you look at a distraught family for whom you have no feelings as you overlook the body of a son taken too early? How do you make yourself heard over their tears and cries? How do you look them in the eye and tell them that they never had a clue the anguish their child lived with? They never had to pretend or to consciously avoid words with too many syllables. They have no idea what agony it is when your mind is screaming out for a connection with your family that doesn't require a mask. They fit. We do not. What do you say?

You say nothing. You look down into a pair of bespectacled unseeing eyes and you shed a tear that no one can find meaning in and then you straighten your tie and walk away.

Naming

Once, they called me, "Chuckles"
because that is what I did for people
Back when the laughter came easy
and the smiles were genuine

As I grew older and more mature
they took to calling me, "Captain"
for reasons I'll not repeat
but told everyone it was because I was a leader

Then there came a day
when they called me, "Nothing"
and still do
Because that is all that is left

The Parable of Plebias

In the days of yore there lived a man.

His name was, Plebias.

He was simple of mind and led a simple life.

As Plebias would plow his fields he would sing. He would sing loudly and with all that he had within him. He would sing beautiful love songs, and tear up at the beauty of the words. He would sing songs to his gods and feel his heart stir with adoration.

People would stop at the side of the road where it ran to meet the edge of his fields and listen.

Plebias could not sing, but being possessed of great depths of feeling his nighbors (also simple people) loved him nonetheless.

As he went into town one day he happened upon a group of soldiers who were searching for new talent to be shared in the court of the King.

"I am a singer of songs," cried out Plebias, "I should sing you a song, alas my throat is parched from the dust of the road. However, ask any man here and he will say that I am a singer of wonderous songs."

In order to avoid offending the good Plebias, all of the men standing around nodded their consent that he was in fact a singer, knowing that the depth of his feeling would save him from shame.

The soldiers, tired of looking, agreed to take them at their word and took Plebias to sing for the King.

Plebias sang in the King's court.

In the Great Hall.

During a feast.

Before all of the Lords and Ladies of the realm did he sing.

He sang songs of love and of adoration to the gods.

He sang them with all the feeling in his soul.

He finished to a deathly hush.

His King looked at him...

and looked at him...

and ordered that his tongue be cut out.

Alone we are born

                Into this darkening world

                Stepping, blind, out in this misty realm

                Like Neanderthals of old we grope

                Grunting out, listening to the echoes

                Praying for a reply

                We shake bone spears, swiping in the fog

                Where are we?

                What is this?

                Never shall we know

                Always shall we wonder

                Forever shall we fear the answer

Angel of Light

The universal constant is God

I have always known

God and Hydrogen

-those are the absolutes

Spanning the cosmos

In ineffable perfection

“Let there be light”

And Hydrogen fissioned

All across the Universe

Stars were born

Pieces of brilliance

By the Creator

Spinning orbs of fantastic

Illumination

Careening about

In suspended emptiness

A boundless imagination

Providing boundless wonders

God speaking Hydrogen

Hydrogen the new

Angel of light