like some once-dear face I can no longer name.
against this heart of mine has turned its back,
against this heart so dead.
--from "Things they Learned at Shiloh" by Carmine Sarracino.
I cannot write any more. The last two days, I have opened my mind to images from decades--no, centuries of bloodshed in Nepal. Am I expected to understand? Am I supposed to look at the glowing screen, in my drywall prison of The Academy, and sympathize with the tears, the bloody tears of thousands, the grief and broken bodies of millions?
Who am I? What good am I? What can I do?
I'm not even good enough to make an afternoon's senseless target practice. Not good enough to exhume my body, wrap me in a flag, place a Kaloshnikov in my stiff fingers, photograph my face, and raise my likeness to the people.
Party on, my yuppie friends. Enjoy the weekend's revelry. Drink, and forget.
But I cannot forget. No sweet oblivion will stream down my throat tonight. For blood will flow in through the valleys, into my troubled dreams.