We Shall Not Be Moved
A prose poem looking back to look forward
January 19th, 2017
This is a very sad day, it tries to deny it, we try to pretend, but it won’t go away. Today is the last day of an America to be proud of. Tomorrow we become ashamed.
Tomorrow the invasion begins in earnest, and it is an invasion with all the implied violence. It is the feeling of flat on the ground, face in the gravel, something heavy in the middle of the back so that the stomach has nowhere to go. It is a posture of death. It is a posture that cannot sustain life. Parts of the dying earth fill my mouth so that I cannot breathe and cannot speak.
This is a sad day that smells of death and chaos, anarchy and the end of the world. I taste metal in my mouth, gun metal. The air is so filled with panic, the air itself, and then us alive in this air? We all feel sentimental about survival, we all feel like goodbye. This is a sad day.
This is the end of days, if days had a choice and could leave when there seemed little point in staying. But this is when days stay even after the burnt out ends of them.
Wilted days past their sell by date. These are sad days. Sad days full of disbelief, emptiness, sad days that can’t believe themselves. Sad days full of the stench of extinction. Grab hold of the air…
