Imprints

In honor of the victims at UCSB and those we lost at UCSD last week.

Three dead here, seven dead there:

Imprints left behind, and they will flatten out again with time.

A little bit of aching in our chests,

A little bit of staleness in our jokes,

A little bit of silence in our pauses,

A little sense of deadness in the day;

A whiff of death is in the air for us who only see the imprints.

The stench of loss is in it all for those who already had indents

From those lives.

 

Three dead here, seven dead there:

Invisible-ized and silenced by rushing metal made by robots,

Made by hands, made by minds:

Some bullets and some automobiles.

We think in circles so we live in circles so we fashion circles

Just to die by circles.

I want just one straight line, just one clear thought

Not distorted by my violence, unreduced to senselessness.

The heaviness wants to turn me inward on myself until I’m a circle too.

 

Three dead here, seven dead there:

If it happened to them it will happen to us.

We will leave some imprints behind that will flatten out behind us

And a gentle breeze of death in our wake as we depart.

Jesus, Jesus, how’d you do it?

How’d you leave such a sweet fragrance?

Jesus, Jesus, supreme victim of our violence

And our gaping self-entitlement,

Raise our imprints from out of the ground,

Holding us by both your hands and dancing us around.

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