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  • We had fed the heart on fantasies
    The heart's grown brutal from the fare;
    More substance in our enmities
    Than in our love; O honey-bees,
    Come build in the empty house of the stare

    --W.B. Yeats


    1.

    There are screams in a movie theater in Colorado, on an island off the coast of Norway, a kindergarden in Shanghai.

    There is blood in Sudan. Afghanistan. Syria. This crimson stains, maroons all of us, from Mount Hermon to the Hindu Kush. In Darfur, Kandahar, Damascus, widows weep. The limbs of children. Splattered.

    In dusty dungeons in North Korea, behind manicured hedges in Greenwich Connecticut, there is violence, there is torture. There are tears.

    Descendants of rapists and their victims. We are all children of murderers. Liars.

    Our history is a book of wounds. a litany of losses, so many sagas of sorrow.

    The pestilence of war. The plague of hatred.

    And so it goes...on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and onon and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on....never ending.

    We cannibalize our neighbors. The world.

    We declare victory while devouring our own hearts.

    We are born into paradise but die in an abattoir.


    2.

    When I close my eyes, i see only light, jeweled rainbows, a bliss that makes my tongue strangle for words, this joy. Unspeakable.

    When i close my ears, I hear only seraphim sounds, effulgent sirens that pierce even my cobwebbed heart, my musty brain, my supercilious ego.

    When I sit still, the universe dances before me, the moon genuflects, the sun bows, there is so much splendor, valor, that is hidden beneath the squalor, within each breath, in the interval between thoughts, down in that primrose valley, where time and space, have crumpled into a flower, in that womb, before i had a name, naked, i return, following the thread, out of the labyrinth, i have seen the Minotaur, its eyes are gentle, and hooves, and horns, belong to me, i did not slay it, but lavished kisses, for i know its true name, it sings to me, odes, serenades, in that saffron light, love beckons, outside, somehow, inside, somewhere, there is a world that is unstained by blood. Without tears.










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