Matter

Walking across the bridge, all I can think is I love this city. The Empire State Building pulsing red, a dotted skyline stretching out reliably as though everything wasn't falling apart, a short, quiet moment on the pedestrian path in mild summer air. But then somewhere along Delancey, turning north and registering the blinking machines humming motionless in the sky, one two three four tracking a hunted animal or a hundred, more threat than promise of peace. Along first avenue, the trash cans are scattered but the street is quiet. How strangely calm in the midst of a pandemic.

At the bodega on the corner underneath our apartment, the windows have been smashed in. Their lights are all on, bright bright bright.

How strangely calm in the midst of a war.

A country falls to pieces before our eyes, egged on by an emperor without clothes and a ruling class without spine. Let us not pretend a broken window is anywhere near as cruel as a sanctioned murder by those who have sworn to protect. The sirens continue, the intermittent waves of people yelling the names of the dead. The helicopter parks itself over our building.

For weeks we sat in our homes, goaded by the rich man who wanted everything and could give nothing.

For years we tried peace, and they would not listen.

Look around your empty pockets.
All we have left now is war.