Reaching Beyond

"The definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results."

Folks concern themselves with the caucuses in Nevada,
the impending doom of an imploding economy
while senators of particular pigment and genitalia
capture the attention of the public by tapping into
latent desires for punishment, liberation, something new.
Some voices humbly remind us: "Iraq."
The front page displays these things ad nauseam. I read them, everyday.

The muslim scholar from Malaysia, the one I spent five
hours a day listening to last week, the one I held open
ears for, the one I dream of studying under, the one I will pray for
on tuesday, and all the rest of my days--he predicts the end of empire:
a time when power will be evenly dispersed,
when a global civil society swarming in beat with universal principles of
empathy, compassion, & justice, a society beyond religion,
beyond my-own-kind loyalties will arise and displace
the now (falsely) boundaried unilaterally-acting 'nation state' pimping
its way into psuedo-paradise. A world without empire, he says.
Eschatological hope, I say.
(...a bit optimistic, don't you think?)

Furiously capturing the conversation in a notebook,
I pause to make connections between
transgenerational systems of abuse,
holocaust(s) and apartheid(s),
US pornography and Abu Ghraib
(which I haven't been able to stop thinking about for 4 1/2 years):
victims becoming victimizers, again and again and again.
I begin to answer my own question, with assistance from the class.
Admit harm.
Do not bolster sulking victimhood
Look for and see the potential of the other.
Treat them, love them, endure them into that potential (Goethe).
Sow seeds (Sang).
Believe in divine possibilities al(l)ways to keep hope alive al(l)ways.

Yes.

And, in this microcosm morning that somehow molds itself
into and out of the gigantic, global substance which has been the focus
of my academic attention, I see ghosts of twin towers and rubble
everywhere I look--just waiting to be turned into a tall tale about
bordered territories and justified occupation of the Other. But this is not
a vision of the political; these are photographs and memories of the familiar,
everyday acts, facial expressions and catch phrases, particular modes
of communication--and therefore subjectivity--in relationship. Pregnant grief,
just waiting to be born and reared by the narrative of my choice.
Lack of reciprocity.
Synthetic self definition vis-a-vis my weakness.
Hypocrisy of the highest possible order.
These are the 'cataclysmic events' plugged into patterns
of revenge-seeking satisfaction that give me what I have always had--nothing more, nothing less.
Predictable, yes. Comfortable, kind of. Enabling, sometimes.
Freedom, never.

Glancing over headlines that display the most recent identity politic wars
couched in election propaganda, a still, small voice echoes:
"no one has ever written anything about me."
How can this be? that such self-effacing,
tender-hearted, quick-to-think-slow-to-speak, poignant passion,
could fail to appear in 21 years of poetry writing?
So in this microcosm morning, I x-out the NYTimes browser
and begin to ruminate on things: your sweaty hand on my belly,
songs passed between us, late night (pastoral) listening,
the way you let me see your pain--early on--without apology.
Adriene Rich once claimed that art reaches into us
"for what's still passionate, still unintimidated, still unquenched."
In this poem, I am reaching beyond religion, beyond cataclysmic events,
beyond revenge-seeking satisfaction, beyond ghosts whispering tall tales,
reaching deep deep down into the soil of (y)our psyche
to touch and strengthen a potential,
to sow seeds of sustainable development (heretofore unexplored),
to let you know I see what is beautiful,
to keep hope for love alive--in you, in me, in the world--
which feels like dismantling a personal/imperial barb-wire barricade
and seems more radical, at this moment,
than casting a vote for pigment or genitals.