crisis – Kevin Trent Boswell

Pattern Recognition

This photo of the State of the Union address should tell you everything you need to know.

Notice that, despite the almost two hours of rambling lies, every Republican politician present stands and applauds and smiles.

But you still think that the Republicans are going to do the right thing and impeach? Even though impeachment has never removed a president from office. Even though this one has been impeached twice already.

You still think they are going to support the use of the 25th Amendment?

By the way, I don’t expect anyone to actually read the links I provided on these two issues, because Americans can’t be bothered to read, which is why we’re here.

Republicans have systematically destroyed our educational system over decades of voting against funding it, precisely so that we would arrive at this moment. They wanted an uneducated, easily-led population, and they got it. And it’s our fault. Yes, ours, because we don’t read anything unless we have to. Well, guess what—now, we have to.

You think Republicans are going to suddenly change direction and stop supporting the agenda of hatred and authoritarianism and ripping the Constitution into tiny pieces?

Even if they did, what would it matter, if they are still there when the dust settles?

They obviously WANT all of this. They’re not simply being polite or playing politics. They want this madness. They want fascism in America.

You watched as the Supreme Kangaroo Court tried unsuccessfully to put a leash on the monster it created.

The only way you get out of this mess is through violent revolution.

You’ll be tempted to tell yourself that violence is what I’m hoping for. But that’s stupid. I’m going to be 53 years old this year, and I have a long list of things I would rather be doing, and none of them involve a revolution that will undoubtedly sow chaos and destruction in our lives in ways we can’t even imagine.

But I know what the alternative looks like. It looks like North Korea. It looks like Cambodia, or the current events in Iran. It looks like Hungary and Russia and Turkey. It looks like the dozens of other authoritarian regimes around the globe. It’s far uglier than any civil war.

It’s an intolerable day-to-day dystopian nightmare.

Even if the president and the vice president and half the current Republican Congress were suddenly gone, you would still have a huge problem in this country.

Because scenes like the one in this photo don’t just happen. There’s still massive support for this bullshit. The most dramatic polls say that only 68% of Americans have an unfavorable view of the president.

Think about that for a moment.

That’s a problem. That’s a huge problem.

You have huge numbers of Americans who refuse to fact-check anything. They still get their news here:

That should tell you that nobody is getting out of this the easy way.

Despite Jon Oliver’s criticism of right-wingers saying “Civil war is inevitable,” I assert that any reasonable person, a person who’s head is not buried in the dirt, should come to precisely that conclusion.

There’s no reasoning with people this hateful and stupid. There’s no debating, no middle ground to be had.

That’s not my choice. It’s their choice.

You cannot reason with someone who doesn’t understand logic and rejects facts.

Continuing to insist that diplomacy always wins the day isn’t merely naive, it’s outright dangerous.

Nobody is getting a pony.

Authoritarians don’t allow free and fair elections.

If you are still telling yourself the lie that they can’t stop the elections, then you’re delusional and you are missing the point.

They don’t have to stop the elections.

They only have to interfere with them, sway the elections through gerrymandering and other tactics, dissuade people from voting through intimidation, stop the counting of votes, deny the results, and there are other methods that we won’t even discuss.

You’re not voting your way out of this.

And you’re not going to learn to live with the new order; it’s going to be absolutely insufferable.

If you want to watch a really fantastic movie that perfectly illustrates how intolerable fascism is, while also managing to make you laugh and smile, then watch this on Netflix:

The Penguin Lessons

You won’t believe what I’m saying. You’ll continue to watch and wait and complain and do nothing. You’ll be nervous but hopeful when the midterms are closer.

But then, you’ll watch them go sideways. And then you’ll act like no one warned you that this could happen.

You’ve been repeatedly warned.

You’ve heard it before—you want to know what you would have done in 1930s Germany?

You’re doing it right now.

All because you never took the time to study history, the American Revolution, the Civil War, World War I and II. You never read the writings of the Founding Fathers. They warned us that we would have to fight the same battles again in the future.

But you were so sure that we’ve evolved, become more educated, empathetic, and that we’ve “outgrown all that.”

You were wrong. Dead wrong.

Half

No point in trying, we see the impossible
Eighty percent are chopped in two
Everything we ever did was all wrong
Nothing that we were taught was true

It’s no use to refine or reach out
Nothing is left in the bin to sort
We can’t be two halves of a whole
The ball is always dragged into court

Years of digging, chasing the veins
To find the heart, a center, a core
But emptiness only weaves and bobs
Ducks out and fucks off to explore

Half of us cut in half by the clock
Cold butcher knife calendar cleave
Constantly screaming we’re wrong
We load, we chamber, and leave

But You Can’t Say It

Sometimes, you know the real reason,
But you still can’t be the one to say it
You know well why they did the thing,
But it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all

It must come from within, in its season
On some level, they know but won’t admit
The canary’s mouth closed; it will not sing
And Van Gogh’s ear refuses the call

By themselves, they’ll have to figure it out
No matter how obvious it may be to you
If you spell it all out, simple and plain
They’ll only reject it as a selfish ploy

Some fall deep into the well of doubt,
Won’t do what the heart most wants to do
They’ll forge on ahead, no matter the pain
Things that love, and are loved, destroy

Avert the eyes of the face in the mirror,
Admitting mistakes, the need to change,
They’ll rake themselves over hot coals
To keep everyone happy, all but the self

Unless it cuts deep, so they feel it clearer
Regardless of how unnecessarily strange
They’ll stick to expired, worn-out goals
Try not to look at the dreams on the shelf

You want so badly to explain it in detail
You know their truth even better than they
If they’d only admit it, they’d be satisfied
You want to scream, draw them a diagram

If you say it for them, your intentions fail
Suspicious of the things you do and say
Fear, manipulations; you must have lied
Some play the willing sacrificial lamb

It’s easier to suffer in miserable silence
Than admit what it is they want the most
Swallow feelings, cause no one displeasure
Love is expensive; it’s cheaper to scream

And their beautiful vision dies in violence
While they suffer daily as drudgery’s host
Twist in boredom’s unhappy full measure
Hold the anchor and let go of the dream

stain

In loving memory of Jevon Ward

he was speaking vodka,
a language that I understood
all-too-well

as I sat on the edge of his bed,
I handed him the joint
that I had just finished
carefully rolling

he lit it, and taking a small toke,
became suddenly
and uncharacteristically
serious

“You do know that I’m not life, right?”

it must have been obvious
that I had no clue
how to answer that,
so he continued,

“When I was just a little boy,
“your grandpa (and mine) told me,
“he said,

‘Son, you’ll pull time before you hit twenty.’

“At nineteen, I did six months.”

before he could say another word,
drunk people spilled into the room
and the party took over

it was as if the writer
of this dark comedy of errors
had carefully placed
the interruption into the script
for dramatic effect

years later,
I stood in the yard
with my father
one morning

we burned a mattress
in the yard

a mattress with
a peculiar red stain
on the top end of it,
right about where a man
would lay his head down
to sleep

smoke climbed high,
snaking its way through
the bare tree branches,
coating the limbs,
blackening the sun,
giving twisted new meaning
to the wind

with each searing crackle,
each hot little iron
that launched out of the flames,
the notion was solidified
that you would never be
with us again

the red stain
is forever removed,
taken off and away
from the bad blend of cotton
and synthetic fiber

its ugly lack of aesthetic,
permanently removed
from the eye

we have, instead,
embroidered you
into our hearts,
in gold-letter
on satin

a little redirection,
a simple trick
of the firelight
and the mind

a touch of
pre-approved manipulation,
vocabulary and memory,
now twisted
to suit ourselves
with semblances
of sanity

and you, all dressed up,
looking dapper
in a new suit

something to
bring you over
the threshold
in style

we have gathered
many flowers

you were one of them

now, on this rainy Saturday,
we gather more,
but none of them are as rare
or as interesting as you

still, we do so wish
that you were not so

still

now, we are all
so much more careful
with our words

we never had to
monitor our tongues before

we always counted on you
to say something
deliciously profane,
hysterical, sublime

you said things far more terrible
than we could ever manage
(or dare) to bring forth
from our fearful mouths

you said it all for us,
you, being our favorite devil,
you spared no words,
knowing full well that your time
was short

now, everything is
serious and sullen

ash settles on us,
stealing the still-warm
seat of smiles

we do our best
to preserve the integrity
of your memory

with all our words,
so clumsily polite and wrong

yours were so horribly accurate

your list of faults could fill volumes

all of these,
now consumed by fire
and forgetfulness

we will not miss them

we are, in fact, glad
to be free of these;
free from the weight
of your awful acuity

your spiteful condemnation
of this earth was always felt
hot upon our necks

even your parting words of
“Fuck this world!”
were a vicious pronouncement
of a pox on all our houses

that seething sentiment,
ever-present,
laced into the mix
of the cocktail that was you;
virtually indistinguishable
from the indiscriminate joy
of your cosmic jester voice
pouring out over our
wanting brains

we will not miss the
chaos of your actions,
or your allegiance to
an autocratic indifference

we only miss

everything else

but beneath all of the
intolerable heavy,

knowing of nothing else to do…

we dutifully
lift our eyes
to the coming days
where you
are not

a poem unworthy of a name

emptiness strode in
and took the place of fullness

redirection and symbolism
flailed like untrained children,
beating each other with
soft, half-balled-up fists;
fists that were incapable
of accurate aim

there was little violence, many tears

still, it was less comical
and more sad

the end result of
all of this
is nothing more than
emptiness

I am not there,
nor are you,
nor is anything,
nor is anyone else

it is all full
of nothingness
now

and anyone who
can look at this mess
and say that there’s anything
good about it

that’s someone who needs
to have all their teeth
knocked out of their mouth

now
it is all full
of nothingness