~~ If I were a poet, I’d have a way to express my deep sadness and unbridled anger. I’d slam provocative and incendiary words on a page including fury, rage, bile, rile, and incensed. I’d associate the terror of being trapped in a crashing elevator to the despair of watching lives obliterated, families shattered, and safety abolished. A poet’s words could convey the contempt I feel for the unalloyed superiority of politicians who stuff money into their pockets while crowbarring open their hollow chest and brain cavities — see, they seem to say, this isn’t at all what it looks like. I’m taking scads of cash to sell you down the river, but you’ll float away on our thoughts and prayers! (To make people who are brainless and godless secrete thoughts and prayers would truly be poetry.)
~~ Perhaps I wouldn’t want to have the talents of a poet or a painter. I imagine that creating a work of art that rips away the veneers of hope and comfort and reveals the venal and the mercenary would likely smear the artist with the dung that’s being flung so fast and so furiously by those who spread their hate, and those who profit handsomely from others’ desire to rip us all to shreds.