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I want to tell you a little story about a boy who was disillusioned. It’s a common story, but that doesn’t make it less important. 

This boy had good intentions, and he assumed the same about the tall people around him.

He was more interested in befriending the crows that came to rest on his rooftop than hearing the old people drone on. 

People had to be good; it was the only way the world made sense. 

It took him a few years to realize his mistake.

When he did realize…it was like the roof caving in. He stood looking at the broken tractor and listening to his grandfather explain how it ended up in the ditch. But the liquor smelled stronger than the fuel…the boy couldn’t believe it. 

The old man looked him straight in the eye and lied.

Then, he started really paying attention, and he got older. He started to see the compromises that people made. He saw the bias and the straight-up deception. He saw selfishness all around him...but the women told him he had to act happy. Put on a happy face.

So, he tried. 

And that was the bigger lie. He shucked and grinned and glad-handed for all he was worth, but in the end, he was alone - his troubles known only to him. He couldn’t bear to be around people. Him, a liar. Them, still lying. His skin burned when he was near them. He stayed up nights wondering what pit of hell would finally have them. 

And him.

They said life was precious down at the church, but the boy figured that for a lie, too. He knew the same sick things about the minister that the whole town did, but he couldn’t choke it down. Everyone else seemed to look away, to make excuses, but it broke him. Same with his family. They said they loved him, but they hurt him and smiled afterwards. 

The boy was raised with guns, but he never had any desire to hurt anyone but himself. He thought of checking out many times. It was a passing thought until it wasn't. 

He took the shotgun off the wall carefully, and when the gun went off even the crows left. They never came back. There was no reason to. Not with the boy gone.

“I did my best.”

That was the last thought the boy thought.

Then an owl screeched in the night.

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Language is magic. Every sentence spoken is a spell; every speaker, a magician. Those of us who are fortunate remember when words were free! When we could wrap them around our bodies for safety. Words were invitations, not curses. 

Not then.

The ones with the blank eyes communicate with points and grunts. They get by, but there is no art to it. No feeling. They are shadows.

The ones who live underground are terrifying. They scuttle between alleys and they scrabble for scraps with torn, bleeding nail-beds. 

The “statues” are already dead. They sway to the blues coursing through their bloodstreams. They are human apparitions. You stop seeing them eventually, but at first they can be very unsettling. 

Please know, the ones who live under the streets are not the rich who live in bunkers. They still wear white linen and gold. Underground is paradise for them. I am speaking of the ones who live with the rats, not the ones who engineered the disaster. 

I am the one who remembers the words. They mean nothing, but they calm me. I say them under my breath while I separate skin from bone. 

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Hey MAGA, it's been a few months now. Not to count the years. Was it worth it? Did you get what you wanted? Does the country look like you want it to look, yet? It's different, that's for sure. There's a lot I can't wrap my mind around, but I will tell you what I SEE.

I see gas prices up. Food prices up. Services slashed. Safeguards obliterated. And that's the easy part.

I see people terrified. I see people losing hope. I see true patriots turning away from the ugliness. I see an ideal dying on the vine, and I blame all of them...the republicans, the democrats, the idiots who think they don't have to get involved. The morons who think politicians are supposed to be their super-buddies or mentors.

I saw two citizens shot dead in the streets. I saw people beaten and stolen and swept under the rug. I see migrants dying because they have been identified as something less than human, when, clearly, they are just as human as my ancestors who just happened to emigrate from a lighter-skinned place. 

I see a bunch of people willing to apologize for pedophile rapists.

I see the world turning away from us. 

I see Iranian propaganda that makes a whole lot of sense. 

I have watched journalism - something I once revered - be turned into state messaging and apologist excuses. Gotta sell that ad time, right? Gotta look out for your shareholders!

I thought we were looking out for each other in REAL ways. I thought we didn't want our neighbors targeted and harassed. I thought we wanted the American Experiment to mean something. I thought we wanted the world's "downtrodden" - I thought we were heroic like that. 

I see now that we are small and misinformed. I see that corruption sinks everything given time. I see that there are far more people than I thought who care only about themselves. 

I thought we had made some progress with the systemic racism. I didn't know it was a feature a bunch of y'all missed and mourned. 

I thought we wanted to be free...like y'all in Texas who are so free you can't smoke smoke a naturally -growing plant or get an abortion. 

I see that money is really the root of all evil, and it is killing us.

I see hypocrisy. Everywhere. 

And I hate it.

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I have this open wound that I keep rubbing salt in. Not sure why, exactly. Maybe I like the burn of it. Maybe it's just something to do. I worry it. Like a hangnail. Maybe it's simple masochism, but I don't think so. I think somewhere along the line I got the idea that I was supposed to keep rubbing the salt in... 

I wonder what would happen if I stopped?

The pain is old and worn out, but it used to be neon. Then, it came in primary colors. Now, it is pastel. Maybe if I am patient enough, the pain will turn clear. 

I'll be able to see through it. 

Maybe the pain is a security blanket. Maybe it's a shield. Maybe I need it, but maybe it needs me. 

There's only one way to find out, and that is to NOT give up. To keep going until I've made it make sense. 

I'll persevere...I'll overcome hardship like a real frontiersman. You can be my guide, and we'll get there together.

Pass the salt?

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When I was small, I believed in Fairy Tales. I was wrong, and I’m ashamed I was so naive. I believed that America was something special, despite its problems. My eyes are wide open now. 

I wonder what the Indians thought when their land was stolen. I bet they were sad to lose their home, but I bet they couldn't imagine that in a few hundred years it would be ruined, the forests gone, the buffalo massacred, the whole damn country stolen and stripped for parts to make the global elite richer. 

I wonder how that would have felt. Probably a lot worse.

I wonder what it feels like to be one of the powerful. Weak in body, corrupt in mind and spirit, but still able to assert dominance over regular folks because of some made up numbers they claim mean something. And those numbers, those dollars, do mean something. 

But only because we allow it. 

If we could bring back the displaced indigenous people, I wonder what they would do. Before their spirit and traditions were broken, they were as powerful as the sun. 

I wonder if they could even imagine that the white men, who came first in friendship (or the illusion of it), would slaughter them without conscience and say that is what their God wanted. I wonder if they could even imagine a God who would tell his people to act this way against other people. To steal their land, rape their women, and put them in schools where they have to relearn humanity, a foreign version of it with less heart and accountability. 

There was tribal warfare before the Europeans, sure, but no one was strip mining the hills so we would all have to fish in polluted streams. They weren't bent on genocide. They respected the land, and it repaid the respect.

The ones who fought back? They are buried in secret graveyards all over this country, but by all means, let’s talk about trans people and drag queens, because that’s what really matters.

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I saw your lips move, the shock cross your features, and then you broke, and crumbled inward. It was both horrifying and enlightening. I took it right to heart. I can tell you that much. I let it rattle around inside and, eventually, I let it dictate my behavior, but not right away.

You can't seem too eager.

I could see you trying to pull it all back. Wrap it up like a cast net. But I knew it was too late, and I think you knew it, too. 

Some things just are.

Now close your face and let the features settle. Maybe you can placate the rage that is building. Or maybe you'll just have to let this bottle rearrange your dental work. 

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Boy, sit down and listen. I won't say it twice. There are some things you need to understand; some rules you need to get hip to. I'm gonna hurt you, too, but not for joy. I'm gonna hurt you because pain is the best teacher, and you are one stupid motherfucker.

I don't want to hear your excuses or your rationale. We all got excuses for what it's worth, you're not special just because you think you have reasons.

Your God ain't gonna help you. You think God is stepping in for you when he lets kids get cancer? I don't believe in it one way or another, but you gotta admit - if he's out there, he is one sick motherfucker. 

More like a devil if you ask me.

Really? I think we all got angels and devils inside us. It's time you met the total package.