My mother thinks democratic liberalism’s
run its course and she’s probably right.
Can we think our way through grit
through the tooth achy reality?
Reality tv started what befalls us now.
I point my finger and my point’s lost.
This is the night I start all of my poems—
the first’s a lullaby—shhh—the next’s on fire
but no one’s listening, sees it burning.
Lost names, missing table, place to defecate—
it’s not me but it will be soon.
Am I going to start gathering my things
and will my patience practice protect me?
I mean, at least it’s a way of thinking.