Man is Dead

poetry

Charleston Church Shooting is blaring on my TV. On my radio and through my phone’s screen.

What is the meaning? When a heartless bias stops a loaded chest from rising, another rise should be happening instead.

When I heard what happened I thought, “of course again this has happened.” In my country something has happened. Something inside me has horribly happened.

I’ve grown numb. Where is the blow to my chest that this news should deliver? Unmoved by the earth shattering broadcast, my knees do not buckle, hands do not shake, my conscious does not break. “This world is beyond reason.” An acceptance I’ve been carrying like

Hope sewn on a sleeve I used to boast proudly now washed off like a tattoo’d thumb, taken from me when I was

sleeping the American dream lost in a Sunoco Casino and my patience? A desert run dry from rain-less nights needed to water it’s kind-hearted intentions. A revelation so to speak up for mothers grieving the loss of their child, hands and feet and heart like my own gone because of something so irrelevant like

color.

No, I can’t sit down and let the world my children grow up in be flooded with hate, crime, and hate-crime then keep saying, “We’re doomed so why must I bother?”

It was Nietzsche who once said the famous phrase, “God is dead.” but not for the reasons we think. The phrase was not a winning statement but, a heartbreaking murder of greatness. We killed the almighty argument to provide some sort of comfortable, false ease.

And so what would Nietzsche think- if he never died from the wretched green -would he state, “Man is dead.” just the same?

June 2015