Our world shakes on the shiver of Atlas shoulders we each bear to lift the girth of volition, of why people seeing other people as things to be smashed into explosion like Holocaust remnant bony shells of SS march in the cinders of Bin Laden’s beard. Whiskers flaring up wafting in the streets of Paris nailing coffins like the downed talons of a bloody dragon wanting to see flesh burn and the globe tilt right off axis until the hate gripping the inside of that dragon heart spreads the way viruses are meant to do, to force the suicidal host to expel molecule couriers into the open mouths of those that dare utter free speech who say I pick love. I pick love. I pick love. The world weeps tonight, but speaks freely resolutely that we each have a dragon in the helm of our heart, but we choose, we pick, we all could, but so few ever treat people as things, to be burned, we choose and that is truly the greatest miracle of our humanity, Lincoln’s better angel of our nature calling us to smile, to trust a stranger’s eyes on nights like this to remember more often that dragon thrashes out not in the cities of lights, but in the Paris of the East fluxing Beirut or Nairobi or a Tunisian beach. Bodies charred skin melted off all wrestling in the juices of the same belly charging us to sound one note from that gut bellowing love.
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