May I please recuse myself?

Free writing, Poetry
Attorney General Jeff Sessions’ testimony before the Senate Intel Committee revealed one thing. Well-rehearsed anger is less effective than genuine disgust.
 
With the proper training, Mr. Sessions would have been an effective extra in a cop movie. Some wide-eyed rendition of an officer bewildered by the scene.
 
One imagines a Russian spy thriller like a Tolstoy story, cold and overcast with a metallic sheen. Names are less important than looks.
 
I see our current predicament more like a movie by Fritz Lang. Blunt and nauseating at times, but always skipping along as if the world is big enough for everyone to speak.
 
Our narrative’s characters have started talking. The impending arc begins assuming real shape. When does our omniscient author intervene to tie things up? Unknowable still as of today.
 
The storm gathers to a point and swallows itself. The last page is missing, torn from the annals of history like a ruptured appendix. The quiet is numbing. The connections, maddening.
 
I had to shut it off. Despising shallow waters.
 
How obvious is all this? How predictable? Inevitable? This world should enjoy a shake-up of its senior writing staff. It’s the least we could hope for. Some grace note to tether us to someplace we can call home.
 
The United States of America is remiss by definition. What becomes of the derelict with self-denial encoded in its genetic fingerprint? I do not recall. I didn’t keep notes for most of these things.
 
As appropriate, I will disclose the documents. I’m not able to make an opinion of that without clear approval from the president.
 
Canyons may crumble without prior notice. Department of Justice will not be open on federal holidays, and why not? It’s not wrong. Even if it was wrong it still wouldn’t be.
 
The irritated General waves down a helicopter on the roof of the U.S. capital building. It’s his dear friend Sergey Kislyak, and he’s brought a thoughtful basket of warm biscuits!
 
Underneath these biscuits lies the key to this whole puzzle. It is warm and sterile, solving all our inquiries like an unnamed bank teller in the last scene. He smiles as the culprits withdraw their allowance before closing the bulletproof slider.
 
All comes together without a single speck of dust. We’re in on it. Not everyone is. This brings us into the fold in a way that the subject will never understand. Why should he? He’s lucky the series is still on the air. The coming film promises the end of his career.

Roy Peter Clark Saves the Day (Again).

Free writing

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.