We build them in our hearts:
thick sinuous scar parks
heavily shrouded by selective history,
foggy fractured memories.
What was neglect we call love,
what was damage is papered over,
painted over with excuses and lies.
While we plant flowers at their feet,
gazing reverently upward,
our minds are screaming at the gates,
raising banners and hammers – “Take them down!”
We build monuments to terrible people.
I made bagels
(from scratch?)
and said as much
when you asked.
must be nice to have time
for that
you quipped over the rim
of your wine glass
swiping at me with inadequacy.
I did not say
the effort was easy
but stood like a dummy
rather wish I’d replied
they were the best bagels I’ve every tried
and walked away unscathed.
Two women sat together in the waiting area at the medical center. They spoke in hushed voices meant only for each other. Their conversation centered on the interaction they’d had with their driver. Apparently she had asked them questions about the area. They decided that due to her inquisitive nature she must be with Interpol. That got my attention.
It was already a strange day. It was raining in Southern California and the mood in the waiting area was quite somber. This was probably due more to the weather than to the inauguration ceremonies occurring simultaneously thousands of miles away in Washington D.C. Along with a sinus infection, these things affected my own mood.
In 2001, George W. Bush took the oath of office for his first term. I feel the same way I did then: apprehensive. They both seemed to have desired the position more for its title than the job itself. Like Bush, Trump is surrounding himself with some knowledgeable people. We held our breath then to see what would happen. I sense there is a collective breath holding now as we proceed into the next term. Everyone reminds themselves that if he wants to be a two term president, he can’t mess up the first term.
We are certainly more divided than ever before. The internet has not helped this but rather it has become a vehicle for others to widen that gap. The art of dissent is lost with trolls. Instead of having meaningful debate and discourse we are distracted and amused by spiteful and mean retorts on Twitter. I could not help but notice how many lines of the inaugural address could fit in 140 characters.
Moved to do something, to take a risk and maybe facilitate improvements in reading and writing, I started this blog today.
I considered using this blog as a platform for my own dissenting opinions. I don’t want to do that. Instead, I will use this as a space to examine the language and structure of well-crafted disagreements. I invite you to submit your own essays dissenting on ANY topic. There are only two requirements: they must be thoughtfully argued and under 500 words. I will not publish essays that are plagiarized, filled with unsubstantiated information, or just plain mean.
Wake up from my dreams
confused by daylight
and the news blaring
out from Europe or
wherever the hell
they found it.
I always forget who I am on Mondays.
The immediate struggle between oblivious slumber
and acute alertness begins
with the snooze button,
a short shower,
hot coffee, intense thought.
Foolish last night.
Talked about silly things
I didn’t think would
follow me into today.
Like how I feel about you.
And I dress up my vulnerability
to face this day
unsure of myself
in your eyes,
unsure of you in daylight,
unsure of these words,
a bundle of uneasiness.
But I always forget who I am on Mondays and
by tomorrow I will have remembered.
I move next to him
sliding my arm around his back,
resting my chin on his shoulder
with much affection.
He relaxes against the familiarity
of me.
We look through the picture window
onto a scene of rolling hills in sunset.
I look deep and disconnect,
submerge into the purple beauty of evening
Feeling his gaze I surface smiling to him
He says:
This would make a beautiful golf course.
Love left me this afternoon at two,
and there is nothing I can do.
He just decided it wasn’t right,
said all we ever did was fight.
What I remember:
Passion in late September,
A quick bitter quarrel in May,
with phrases we shouldn’t say.
Making up with kisses, caresses;
aid through small distresses.
Roses bloomed from his hand;
June brought a shiny gold band.
August heat spurred temperaments,
everything lost sentiments.
Something went missing from his eyes,
there were so many new lies.
I tried too hard for his attention —
she was not my invention.
Love left me this afternoon at two,
and there is nothing I will do.
Age of Dissent 