The End of the Beginning

There aren't, on every subject, two equal and opposing viewpoints. On some subjects, it isn't just a difference of opinion or politics, of belief or law. There are moral absolutes, though it's difficult to argue two rights make a wrong or that good can result from bad.

Those who can have not stopped the decimation of Palestine from the willful and immoral acts of Israel, and so Palestine will fall, but not cease to exist. When this happens, those who can but willfully and investedly did not stop the atrocities against Palestine must destroy Israel, if only to show the nations and movements of the world the falsehood that iniquity is not equal, and that those who can, will, when it's convenient, and so Israel will fall, and similar alliances will cease to exist. 

Israel is committing eventual suicide while committing genocide. Those who can will assist them if only to keep from being destroyed themselves. And so those who can will stand, though their souls, their leadership, their respectability will cease to exist. 

There are moral absolutes, but in a world where people are constantly attempting to demonstrate that wrongs being right and defend the asinine notion that good can be produced from bad, then I say those that can go all in. If our flags flying over vanquished, decimated lands where children once laughed, culture once thrived, and their murderers were once enabled and even encouraged to succeed, let's get on with it.

Be at peace, Palestine. I'm sorry we failed you. 

Pray for mercy, Israel. The friendship is ending. 

God Bless America, and Those Who Can.

On A Framed Evening

I can't stop looking at this print. 

Its subject is irrelevant, its medium immaterial, the image uninspiring, the colors a melange of hues unspectacular and moods reflecting nothing in particular. I've seen this print nearly every other night and day of the last twelve years of my intinerant career, the not-inexplicable possibility of this far from uncommon artwork having been present on one of the walls of the multiple rooms throughout the three usual motels at which we're temporarily housed between traincalls.

And once again, over this desk in tonight's room in the most upscale of the three fleatraps, the print is present, as am I.

I'm disappointed in myself these days, my somewhat regularly reliable thoughts unexpectedly rootless or with weakened foundation now, my emotions zigzagging from one strong conviction to another uncertain meandering idea like a listless leaf prematurely dislodged from its branch, gently whisked by a meager breeze to be unfairly and roughly thrust by a contrary gust of crosswind. 

There's so much irresolution, so much chaos, undesired but rationalized capitulation, not enough resolution, the rare solemn yet confident stillness, the desired and reassuring recapitulation of too many issues both grave and wonderful, both mundane and rhetorical, and revolutionary and exciting.

Fuck the Jews. Fuck the Russians. To hell with the bigots and the reprehensible, damn my obvious hypocrisy and my repressed anger. 

Bring back the goodness and the magnaminity I always believed I possessed throughout my younger years; revive the charity and happy generosity I used to believe I practiced well, among loved ones, toward strangers, to myself but only at the end and after I felt I may have done all I could for whatever measurement of time experienced at the time. 

Return to me the brother I never fully cast out though he cast me out, return to me myself from the brotherhood to which I learned I gave much more than from which I ever received, and all by my own doing. 

Return to me my children for whom I've lived and labored my whole life even before I knew parenthood, for my independent, individual actions and decisions, though haphazard or educated, led directly to them and their existence, and reject any possibility of the success of their failures, losses, broken dreams, unfulfilled souls, for they should reap the benefits of proper investment of muscle and blood and learn from the errant paths they'll traverse while in search of such rapture. May all our children thrive and prosper.

And then there's my beautiful love, my beloved lady, about whom I'lll write numerous chapters in so many books on the shelves in the library of my heart, and compose lyrics and verses so ornate and in tribute that no music will ever sufficiently accompany them. But tonight the descended Muse whispers to me She's calling it a night and I should rest before the coming day's traincall.

I don't know. I don't know. Even though I think I know too much, or at least think I think too much about it all. Jesus, my head, my eyes - 

as I lean back in my chair at this same desk and almost reluctantly look upon the same print I've seen almost every other night in similar motel rooms these many past years, the same unremarkable, nondescript image of a nowhere place I'll never see but know so very well, 

like my soul, my mind, my rest of my life.