- Did your parents watch television with you as a child?
- Did your parents watch television news with you?
- Did your parents explain the news to you? (Explain.)
- Which parent listens more and who holds the remote?
- Did your parents take you to the movies? Whom more often?
- Did your parents ever run track?
- Did your parents let you decide for yourself?
- Did your parents ever run Amok?
- Do your parents smoke?
- Did your parents escape from somewhere far away?
- Did your parents escape from somewhere far upstate?
- How old are you?
- How old is your mother?
- How old were you when your first pet died?
- Did your family bury pets?
- Where are they buried? (Be specific.)
- Describe the dimensions and character of any one.
- Do your parents keep old photographs?
- Do you intend to keep them too?
- Did your parents have old photographs to keep?
- Where were you born?
- What state do you live in?
- What state? (Be specific.)
- Which US State do you live in?
- What US? (Explain.)
illicit solicitations from a foreign enemy
harmless contacts, couches, cuss-words, coffee
under your breath, just a note of restraint
one trillion tons of the Larsen Sea ice shelf
broke off and let surrounding waters run a ribbon
along the clean inexperienced edge, the fringe
of the continent no shortage of data or places
to sit in your apartment. Your room needs a bed.
Some of your song finds that buoyant frequency
I’ve practiced over and over in my throat
the only test I worry about is one of patience.
AM I sick to be revived by this? I think it
harmless, I am more careful now. You Jump
Into the tall lit frame of the window, you tell me
I didn’t look scared. I retire, warm with my love
a bit bunched slum, limbs were eaten up
by his clothes a few sizes too large, face
bathed in a curious storm of blue light
in her sleep. Furious today, a first peek of vulnerability:
Jupiter’s Big Red Spot, captured by scientists,
fetishized by psychologists, and canonized
by Quantum Field Mechanics heaving toolbelts
of infinite use and possible interactions
small modifications can bring you closer to
the result you want, without ever reaching
complex interaction, walking an integral path
“perhaps the most elegant equation ever devised”
I crop up in your rearview, no hands
“one hug” executed deliberately as a button up
or my hot step, guilty but not disgraceful
like masturbating with dirty fingernails
or cumming on the basil plant every morning
no measure of human suffering is not precise.
TO BUILD a little boat of experiences
and set it out without a tether
to lose your father’s childhood
attention to the red sail, are my
fixations and yours the same?
Giving you all my undue attention as
unwarranted televised back-un-forths-
unwage unwar unward unknow it uni-verse
unsung unspeaking unheard-of this day-un-age
Inane and uncouth generosity bifurcates as it plays too abruptly
to the thoughtless tune of Labor Day Mattress Sales commercials
tricast untelevised lightning storms ungulfing us unside,
as a wild boar flares its nose hairs in frustration
as impatient as cremation, as understudies beeline,
as I (underlined) afflict others by being
earthly-ever untethered to the undead
you, nowhere unceasing never (don’t say it) still
ever quietly alive and affixed to my name.
In the wake of Mr. Comey’s testimony on Thursday, my political-awareness-barometer hit an all time spike. The night before, I read and reread his prepared remarks in their original PDF format, crafting various haikus to highlight the more absurdist moments. It’s nice to envision Comey sitting with his laptop open on his lap, facing a Word document with the potential to topple a precarious, quite clearly vicarious administration. Maybe he fixed himself a nice, stiff drink or a hot pot of coffee.
When he first sat down before the committee, I thought maybe he would cry. Certainly not out of fear, but something immense percolated underneath his sternness. His eyes darted rapidly in a barely perceivable way.
“They will be back,” he told us. He was sure of it.
Of all the bombshells, one stood out like a dead bird of paradise in a reopened coal mine. In all their discussions, Trump didn’t bother to ask Comey about the Russian cyber attack against the country he is currently leading. He was far too concerned with the hooker-laced dossier to notice. This omission goes beyond neglect. The only viable conclusions remain that the President did not care that the U.S. had been attacked because (1) such things generally fail to concern him, or (2) he was an active participant in said attack, thus needed no breakdown of events from intelligence officials. Either of these options is dismal at best.
Whatever the outcome, at least we can derive a little peace from the persistent nature of truth, and the good will of some, resisting burial. I do still firmly believe in an impending uncovering of a grand truth. Maybe not the whole truth, but enough truth. Nixon later expressed regret that he didn’t destroy the tapes. Perhaps Trump has already taken the initiative that Nixon did not.
The scope of this upheaval, however, stands alone in the annals of American political tradition. There should certainly be sufficient evidence soon to move beyond political theater into the realm of prosecution and impeachment. I’m almost sure of it.
I woke up with a sewing needle lying on my bedsheet, not three inches from my eye. I’m not sure how it wound up where I found it. Regardless, I’m struck more seriously by the Twitter feed I left agonizing over attacks in Tehran, Qatar losing touch, a vanished Burmese military jet and it’s over 100 vanished passengers, a new FBI director announced bright and early this morning.
Sleep finally came after that tidbit, around 6 a.m. my time. I woke up at 11, to a total of 777 updates in the feed. Last night was my first attempt at building a reliable and informative Twitter feed in hopes of one day joining the national conversation. I’ve been unusually hesitant to join this specific social platform for years. Facebook entered my conscious behavior, exerting influence at the onset of my high school years. Since then, I’ve stuck with it intermittingly, never one to post without due cause. I have also since become active on Instagram and Snapchat. MySpace was slightly before my time.
Twitter always appeared to me as the lowest form of mass communication. Perhaps it was the strict 140-character limit that led me to this bias. More likely, it was the quality of the earlier user accounts, touting ill-sourced and ludicrous conspiracies against President Obama. I witnessed a revolution on this medium with the Arab Spring, along with the rise and transformation of an underdog Democratic candidate into the first black President of the United States. Quick change served as the catalyst of this medium. Crowdsourced input broke the traditional news cycle. Anyone could make the news and all news was digested in blocks of the same size. A story from the Times takes up exactly as much space as one from a personal blog written by a dissatisfied constituent or a citizen under siege. We entered into a new informational age of conflation.
By the time I first attempted to utilize Twitter, I was still unconvinced of its efficacy. My earliest explorations had tainted the prospect of using the platform as a daily source of news. Twitter began patrolling spammy accounts and bots in efforts to bolster legitimacy. The result was a cleaner feed, not necessarily one with higher quality content. I just couldn’t stick to it, something seemed cheap about the whole place. Politics appeared as a game of insults and biased reporting. Baseless theories proliferated and actual journalism was tasked with keeping up and breaking through. The system did not allow for the cream to rise to the top. Important news pieces were left dispersed and suspended in a tall glass of muck.
My persistent political involvement had sharply dropped off in the year following Obama’s inauguration, an event I am lucky enough to remember attending in person. Before this milestone, I can recall a busy girl pouring over news bulletins and press releases. Breakfast was accompanied by no shortage of newsprint: The New York Times brought us the world and Newsday brought us the town. The evening news was a communal engagement in my family. We scoffed, we chastised, and most importantly, we discussed. When discussions reached a point of relief, we sought channels for action. My father began a charitable collection at our church for active military personnel in Iraq and Afganistan, called “Operation: Gift Box.” He was inspired by our Pastor’s husband Mike, recently reunited with us after a tour in Iraq and gearing up for another deployment. Mike brought back vital news from the front lines, less strategic and more emotional. It was the little things, he said; An insufficient amount of toothpaste, a dismal selection of snacks, nothing new to read.
My father sought to address these gaps in the military budget, with his focus always trained on empathy. “Love the soldier, hate the war.” It was a small effort, but significant enough to garner a marginal amount of local press coverage. On the side, I accompanied my father on night outings in which we plastered anti-war messages across town. My father taught me that even those without a platform can create their own. Before Twitter, he recognized that the world isn’t so large that your contributions go wholly unnoticed.
A good message is worth fighting for.
In January of 2008, my politically-minded liberal father succame to a particularly invasive form of Melanoma. The women in my family, my mother, aunt, and grandmother, were each lost in a sea of broken hopes. Instead of despair, we channeled our frustration with the world into our desire to see it change. Barack Obama represented so much to our family and still does. When a family loses a battle with cancer, it can seem like every fight is a useless expenditure of one’s time. Yet this is backward. Every funeral should eventually serve as a call to action. Reexamine your loved one’s life and route out any unfinished aspirations for the world they left behind: yours.
This does not, nor should not, take place in the funeral hall or place of worship surrounded by mourning friends and family. Each person in attendance should have the right to draw their own conclusions from such an event. Don’t force an understanding. Let it come to you when you least expect it. Let the world’s dispatches remind you of work left to be done. Imagine the world they would have created had they survived. If your beliefs align with theirs, imagine they are next to you while you watch and read the news. Keep an ear out for their voice in your head. What would strike a cord with them? What would pique their interest and spur their civic action? Let them lead the way and speak out.
The comfort of the Obama administration has left us all a bit nonplussed. The world is as scary a place as it was to me in 2008, without the compass of a living father to guide me. It’s been nearly a decade since he left us. Sometimes it seems like it is increasingly impossible to be an informed citizen. I find myself picking and choosing the most pressing headlines in an undying search for subtlety. The pace of breaking news is not conducive to critical analysis. It used to flurry outside every once and a while. Now the most trusted outlets begin each day bracing for another avalanche. I can no longer avoid Twitter. Serious writers cannot afford to miss the opportunities for engagement that it provides. I appreciate at least that the site encourages you not to “like” a person but to “follow” them. I will follow Donald Trump in the sense that one follows a local traffic report on the radio: reluctantly scanning the airwaves for colossal wrecks and slowdowns.
A consequence of extreme inaction, I recently sought the guidance of a psychiatrist to recalibrate my mind. I left with a new label: Adult ADHD. The medication is of enormous help most days. A trained apathy toward reading had slowly evolved post-graduation. An uncertain future was neglected because it was too inexcusable to stomach. I sought the approval of men, one man in particular, who indulged too heavily in provocative arguments. I often lost my train of thought. Writing, a singular joy in dark times, became a task scheduled for another day. The basic mechanisms of reflection and critical analysis were rendered costly wastes of time. I took to drowning out the impenetrable walls of incoming information, news briefs, Senate hearings, etc. via YouTube videos, clippings of a whole story that’s too big to print. I forgot to reach inside myself for answers.
The time for action is upon us, heavy and persistent. Every wasted hour feels like a year of my intellectual life. It’s time to turn my powers toward the necessary work that must be done. Research is vital. Hip hop is helpful. Grateful citizens engage and their work is consecrated. Consciousness shouldn’t be an obligation. Heritage isn’t hermetically sealed. Your actions are no footnote. The chapters lie haphazardly before the splendor of my genetic fingerprint. Who plays the long-awaited grace note in amorous reprieve? She sits tensely unabated. Just who is this girl when she’s at home? An unlit fuse? No. Too simple. Perhaps a cantankerous headline will reveal it. Maybe the ceiling will give and nature will reclaim it all. Unlikely. The foundations resist all manner of flood and fire. Our institutions align everything in their wake as if by magnetism. What creation of man is enough to cause an upheaval?
I arrive late to the dock searching for suspicious curios and cases. Everything is already unpacked or at least rifled through. I strain my vision for a point of focus. What am I really trying to say? I am not taken by surprise. This here is a blessed treaty with myself. Unphased ducklings spread their candor over their moment when it comes. Seasoned sentimentalists question cartels over milk, honey, and heat rash. The district attorneys change the locks on their desk. Church attendance sharply decreases or increases, based on the quality of the communion wafers. What value is placed upon the verifiable in our nature? Which impulses, improperly stoked, eliminate the action potentials which unite us in shared understanding? America is not an impatient child, asking its mother to cut the line. It’s not easy for us to hear the word “no.” We learn to swallow our missteps and own up to those we have wronged. Our progress is not a footnote. It is our pulse.