Boston Marathon bombings
It's a thing of beauty in a way—
the purity of it, the power,
the ability to clear away
everything which isn't itself
and to do it so simply—
a push of a button,
a deep rumble, and
a bright orange flash.
Funny to think that somewhere
someone is victorious.
For someone, that moment,
that fraction of a heartbeat
was likely the greatest victory
of their lives.
It's easy to see the appeal.
To so easily and completely
exert one's will onto others.
To so seductively strip away
clothing and flesh and blood
and to then pretend that
something has been accomplished.
And all it requires is a willingness
to sacrifice a little bit of blood.
And so once again we will weep.
Once again we will repeatedly
let the abstract symbolism
of justice and retribution
spill from our mouths.
Once again we will likely ignore
that no matter what happens in life,
the very next moment is
always a choice.
A decade ago we made our choice.
We chose violence and destruction
and the death of innocents.
We chose to exert abstractions
through instances of our own perfect light.
We chose to disjoin flesh
in the same pretty flashes of orange.
We have little cause to wonder
why this happened or who did it.
We did it.
We are the bomber.
We collectively,
who choose the same easy path,
who choose abstractions and symbols
over the reality of blood and flesh,
who choose artificial lines on maps
which dutifully require
tears for the dead on one side
and ignorance of the dead on the other.
We who choose bombs over words.
On the news, Boston will receive
non-stop coverage.
An hour's worth of news
spread out over a whole day.
Meanwhile, the bombings in Iraq—
a dozen or so of them
on the same day—
won't get a minute of our time.
For the cute American boy
there will be photos and laments,
as there should be,
but for the Iraqi children
there won't even be names.
We are too busy waiving
flags at our greatness
to bother with that.
If Americans really want to do
something meaningful today,
they should save their prayers
and choose to stop blowing up
innocent people in crowds.
otherwise, there is nothing
moral to be said.
There is only might.
In truth,
we seem to like it that way.