a pall

blanketed in smoke

from this pyre

erupting in sparks

that takes us

one by one by two by eighteen by twenty-two by forty-nine by losing count by going numb by marking ourselves as safe during the crisis by watching the money trail by voting anyhow by making memes and jokes and even games about thoughts and prayers by endless haranguing against the implacable and unmoved and intransigent by trying to even assert that it actually happened because it must have been a false flag because it is too horrible to believe because righteous indignation comes faster than admitting complicity because this morning the radio asked me do we even still feel it because tell us again about the fabled coming race war because decorate it in a flag or make it pink and festive because death machines are a right but your life is not because someone somewhere must be making a killing

making a killing to be able to spend this much money convincing so many people that death machines are sacred artifacts which cannot be abridged and every human life must somehow live in service to them

making a killing

one by one by three by fifty-nine

a pall that isn’t quiet

and the sparks go




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