*: On Poetry, #10: All of a sudden the city on fire

4. What they will say  is yours 

Is your body, are your hours, are your efforts, your own? Or does the narrow world say that the only thing left for you is your pain? It is easy to feel like your time belongs to your employers and your body to men or the family or the state but that your pain is yours entirely, that your struggle is a field you cultivate yourself, a thorny one of your-own-damn-fault. This is their other weapon: to make the opposite of what is true seem true.  But what is actually true is that in the world as it is now pain is the one thing we can be certain we are never in alone.

5. Another kind of poem  

The narrow world would have women and other people make people and care for them just to donate them as brutal, sensate, pained material of the world in this arrangement. It would ask us to gestate food for its nightmare. It would ask us to reproduce, with our love, fodder with a pain scale, then surplus, fodder, too, and only what can feel the pain exacted upon it.  But when we feed & grow & tend each other it is not to feed & grow & tend the machinery of expansionist death. There are reasonable things we can do to refuse this.  That is another kind of poem.

*: On Poetry, #10: All of a sudden the city on fire.

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