Whatever Chicanery

 

My knuckles are cracking

as I type out these words,

the petrification of my joints,

being worked out,

as I considered my self-imposed

heartbroken silence; word by word.

 

We’ve entered (re-entered?)

a time where the worst fears of

my like-minded peers have come

true, much to our collective

chagrin.  A shocking jolt of…

whatever chicanery it will be.

 

I’m not sure they even have

a name for what it will be called

as of yet. I certainly haven’t had the

words for it, much less the intestinal

fortitude, to devise a moniker for the

debacle that may await.

 

There’s still a large part of me,

so stunned and shocked, that I hardly

believe it happened, but I’m reminded

of my own words and what must be done,

what price we have to pay,

to be vigilant and unbroken.

 

As I emerge from this unsure silence; I remind

myself to be more loving, patient and

considerate, to the point that it

sickens those that would rather wish

ill-will than extend a helping hand.

Yet I’m cautious, since I’ve been hurt.

 

It’s a wound that will take time to heal,

and a scar that will take revision;

to overcome the potential future

of a world I no longer recognize,

an unfamiliar zeitgeist, and a strange

populist fever dream I’ve no desire to have faith in.

 

It is, however, by a renewed faith, that I move forward,

perhaps quietly at first, shaking the cobwebs

from my joints, until I am full-throated and

my fingers are nimble gymnasts, tumbling and

flipping like Olympians over the keyboard,

expressing the poetry inherent in our times.