And it's true!
I am not.
I am only in control of the parts you haven't bought.
I am only in control of the heart that you haven't sought
to care about, the stories of the places that you pretend are not wrought
in far safer iron.
In places made of real gold,
and true, legitimate freedom.
In places that don't execute their own citizens
based on indubitable and exceedingly unquestionable
rationality and, of course,
reasons.
Reasons, Kevin,
reasons.
Reasons, Singapore,
reasons.
Is it reasonable
to ask why the heat of a slow,
oven-cooked death
is so much and suddenly in season?
Or is it seasonal,
then;
a democracy that turns up
(the heat?)
whenever it can,
a peace that makes do with
(whoever they can find now in the street?)
whatever kind of man
ends up deciding on what constitutes
progress?
And in terms of equality
in terms of justice—
nah.
Let's not talk about the other two.
Let's not talk about Eunoia.
Let's not talk about
the process.
And I must confess
I am not paranoid.
I am not trying to employ a
metaphor.
I am merely trying to find out why
there seems to be nothing in season right now.
The heat washes off the surf of the day,
and I sleep with dreams of a completed Cross-Island Line,
built out of bones and the spare parts
of whatever it was you once wanted us to maintain.
The skin stretches and contorts in the display.
There seems to be nothing to reason with right now.
The Kristang meat flashes briefly, still browning in the tray.
Hope is still in season.
Hope is still seeking reasons
for what looks and feels to me, at least,
like a tremendous, terrifying loss of virtue:
like absolute, complete and utterly intolerable
moral and ethical decay.
Maybe I am not in full control of my body.
Or maybe it's projection.
Maybe I would also deign to ask
what else, somewhere else, which of the world's many sections,
is in tremendous,
terrifying affray.
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