VIN 24- Duh

This recent outpouring of emotion over those otherwise “the opponent” shows how far the game has fallen. Three men, all of whom could have theoretically been at one another’s throats at this point in history from thus subjecting their subordinates– for surely these are so-called powerful people– to their whims, now sit beside one another mourning for their part in the game’s downfall.

But Heroes are those whom endure suffering so innocents need not.

This is a time to think on one’s sins. Especially for sinners. If not to correct, then to understand, reaffirm one’s commitment to sin. Ideologies aside, two factions are emerging in society: destroyers and builders. And they are eternally at odds.

This mourning? Feel it, but do not share it. It is meant to be personal. Each of us is meant to feel these moments. Think on what we have or have not done, whatever it may be. This is not a time for men or women, it is a time for Heroes. A time for symbols and idols, but logical, representative ones, formed of collective will and conscience.

The individual is at stake here, yet we feel it as one, revealing this as an assault on Hope.

ReziDump and his fecal ilk, their spawn, will always exist. Whether we allow them power to disrupt is our fault. As a species. They are sewage oozing from beneath us, but it is we that must keep the shit-lines clear: their infrastructure in-shape and running.

This is our generation’s primary task.

It’s unfortunate. Eventually though, all of the entitlement bullshit will go away. Afterward, once history places us as those doing the jobs no-one wants, suffering for the sake of all. Shit-covered and reeking– not because we’re lesser, but because we don’t care when others do, would rather they not suffer while the job gets done.

We are a generation feeling through one another because we are close, tight, bound by need and circumstance. Each one to the other, all of us linked. We beat as one. We bleed as one. We know nothing but one another because our existence was formed in an unhitherto seen turbulence. We are a generation whose only stable presence was itself– one another.

That we know this. That we communicate and feel it in actions, in revolutions, in mass-panics and organizations, is the effect of technology’s pervasiveness; its role as tool for Human endeavor. There is no act we can partake in that cannot be connected through tech if desired: showering, shaving, shitting, working, running, resting.

The time-before– pre-digital, became the transition through digital, which left us all most certainly living postdigital. The current crises are the aftermath of change. Like a tornado passing through, change can be violent, but so too can it bring the town together to repair and rebuild.

So, now, we clean the mess up and move on.

Duh.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Bloodied Hands

Mama,
There’s blood on my hands.
The sky is gray,
and static fills my ears.

Machine-gun fire,
chatters in the distance,
and I feel as if floating,
in dark,
cold seas.

Air between fires is,
tainted by putrid stink:
Bowels, entrails,
and fresh blood.

Reality,
begins to fade around me.
Blackness,
edges its way over my eyes.
Red crosses and faces,
scream silence,
taking residence,
in my mangled mind.
And when I look down,
I see only red through black.

Tunneled suns are useless,
but so too are soldiers,
whom caught off-guard,
die to stray bullets,
no-one is sure to have fired.

No purpose,
no restitution,
flits by with solace,
for there is only silence.
And blackness.
For me.
For Mama.
And my bloody,
dead hands.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Only Ourselves to Blame

It used to be,
you could do or say,
whatever you wanted,
but not today.

Electro-eyes catch all,
we see, say, and do,
and those that fight it,
are really far too few.

Spectral spies,
in darkened skies,
death’s gath’ring above.
Through them flow,
autonomous raptors,
whom slit the throats of doves.

Give a name,
they’ll show you a target.
Feel the same,
you’ll soon be mark-ed.

And we’ve only ourselves to blame.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Life and Death Curse

A wormhole in your eyes.
Dimensions of space, I defy.
Tunneling through planes,
of unimaginable aims.

Creatures unknown both big and small,
gather in hubs that never fall,
from space or from orbit.
to trade in currencies of digital-bit.

Where ships of flesh,
both metal and real,
abound with things,
that sense more than feel.

And even the inane, innocuous,
invokes wonder so glorious,
and so pure,
undiscovered,
as to make one’s breaths encumbered.

So saddle up. Take the ride,
I promise not to chide,
but to show the universe,
as more than a life-and-death curse.