When confronted,
I go all deer in headlights.
I think of way too much to say that’s uninhibited
by behavioral norms,
by Good Sense
or Good Taste.
When confronted,
unexpected,
especially before coffee,
especially just before Moon’s vacation…,
I’ll probably tell you what a self-righteous, mendacious, narcissistic, arrogant, condescending, pharisaic and sanctimonious, pedantic, patronizing, pompous, and presumptuous hypocrite you are. I might boot that hyperbolic honesty right in your root of all evil.
I might call you out for the murderer you are, with your gleefully inexorable sewering of this planet’s means of survival: your bloody petrol stinking of suffering; your recyclable reusable waste, wrapped in new and impermeable plastic, left out to choke and smother life, to afflict the soil with moribund infertility; your wastingwastingwasting, water to electricity to food to gas to time to money to love to energy to every every natural Atlas shouldering our plutocratic bloat.
And all of this is true truthing Truth I try not to speak.
I am not afraid to utter (ohnonononono), and I am also not interested in bludgeoning your head and shoulders with What Your Heart Already Knows. If you ain’t listenin, there’s no point yellin louder. I am working to evolve into, to become what I wish the world could be. It takes human reactor energy to weigh each consequence of each action, to live consciously in darkness, to keep just back of the precipice over Bitter and Jaded. And my balance has never been that steady.
If you approach me before coffee, just before Moon’s vacation, I’ll share Cassandra’s visions with you. I’ll tell you what keeps me up at night, wide-eyed waiting for sweet Sandman’s arms of black poppies. I’ll whispering spiraling fill your ears with bilious hand-tinted visions of monocultural agricide, of illegal home gardens, of tin-broadcast state evangelism, of bonedry aquifers and arid land, of frightened vigilantes and new troglodytes, of colors leached out of sky and soil and trees and water and faces, of songless mornings empty of birds, of chirp-empty evenings remembering frogs, of crops unfertilized, of vehicles dead, of bodies too poor to be buried, of UStians who know only television and tests and nothing of survival, of the violence between The Fall and the day our guns finally rust. I’ll whisper effluvium, smallweeping aciculated tears, oxidized edges of bittersweetness whose sweet cannot be found or fathomed. In precaffienated darkness, I’ll carry you through the prescient fog; I’ll tell you things I do not never no thank you want to know. And that I know see feel like a freight train, with or without my will.
I don’t leave the house much just before Moon disappears.
Love,
my Colossal Vocabulary and Righteous Indignation
(originally written on a Thankstaking holiday)
