I have a hard time these days putting into words what I see, hear, feel and think. Some days I am busy with radio work. Some days I go on walks with our puppy. Some days I can't stop crying while I watch a stupid movie with a talking dog.
Labor day weekend, a weekend of record heat and smoke-filled skies from fires in Southern California, I sat in Los Angeles' Marina looking out on the water with a cold drink next to me. Suddenly I thought: "How can we pretend that everything's ok?"
Later at home, I wrote this poem:
So We Pretend
Under a red noon sun obscured by clouds made from fresh ash
With a serving of seven bullets in the back of a black man
Too thin to comfort corpses of those who died alone
Two men in suits
Who sell themselves as our screaming saviors
In perfect formation above red-golden muted waves
And I cry
Then, I pretend that everything's ok