Nights. And Christmas lights. Tempers heave, the stress mounts, and then there’s snow. And mistletoe. In the morning, clouds. Celibate breakfasts and backwards driving on the lawn. Castles coated in ice flakes, meandering on the pond where once someone vanished and never did they find them. But there are still, here, nights. And Christmas lights.
So a black man dies. And everyone’s watching. A useless spitball launched against the wind as we jury our opinions. And some young kid somewhere thinks that once, we used to turn our eyes to the stars and push for that place. A void opened, sucked in the hope that we had when we were ten or eleven, and a looping strand of red licorice hung in our teeth as we biked blissfully past the pedophiles and the molehills and the model homes. We turned in. We sat down. We saw the great heights. Clouded by Christmas lights. And tiny bug bites. Recorded in our skin.
I don’t know how we got here. To inside-out’ing diseases and the messy world. To caustic meanness and abrasion and the snapping of anger, of roads full of rage and hearts turning grey. Radicals, fundamentalists, now the people who believe in something the strongest are the most violent. And we are afraid. Of cold. Of warmth. Of connection. But mostly of disconnection. And the sighs. And the mighty lies. And the mighty lies.
We are made for battle. Humanity as a fight. A contest, a boxing ring. A blue sphere made of people grappling with each other over anything. Give me a reason to hate. Or to rage. Give me a reason, and I will play. This is no game, but a holiday display. A broadcast signal of who we are – aimed at the stars. This is a recording. A history a second after it’s created. A rolling epitaph of our actions and inactions and the sullen, simple place that lies between the two – the place we rest our heads. Beneath the cold sight of Christmas lights. Born in the fading hope of the great great heights. But made of the many imaginary slights. And filled with the sound of all these worthless fights.