Meanwhile. May 30, 2020

Meanwhile the streets are burning. Meanwhile men with thick, white forearms and heavy metal vests are marching their might through the streets. Meanwhile their impassive faces are hidden behind screens and their words are muffled by the sound of their bullets. I hear the crashing glass, the distant shots, the painful gun blasts. I hear the shouts. I hear the tenor of voices rise as fear kicks in. I learn that a human’s voice really changes when they realize their lives and liberty are in danger. And I see them standing strong and clear. Smoke rises in the air. I can imagine the smell of it. Meanwhile their violence and impunity are ignited by the craze of the man whose job it is to lead us. Meanwhile, they’re putting handcuffs on the man— the black man—who’s reporting the news. The man speaks calmly, clearly, humbly into his microphone. I’m just doing my job, sir. Soft, calm, poised. Nothing. Just masks and vests and heavy sticks and thick forearms. Ignorance behind the masks. The weapons. The slow, steady dismantling of a film crew… one by one they are turned, cuffed, goose walked toward a cage. The cameraman is the last to be taken. I hear his voice. Sir. Sir. We are peaceful. We’re just doing our jobs. No response. The angle of the camera drops and we can see only knees and asphalt. Feet moving away, flanked by three thick robots. The feed goes black.

The illusion is empty. It no longer exists. The illusion that our country is here to protect us is a myth.

Meanwhile the cop sits with his hands in his pockets, calm and poised as George Floyd slowly suffocates. He knows he will have no consequence for his actions.

And even as I write, the words of another poet surface. Meanwhile, the wild geese, high in the clear blue sky are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

The world offers itself to your imagination….

Announcing your place among the family of things

I want a world where we have the luxury of poetry like this. Where we can all see our place among the family of things, and it’s not painted along lines of division, but on the knowledge that we belong together.