by Darren Colbourne
Forget us cynics and pessimists, ignore
The caustic comedian with his sarcastic joke,
The headstrong punk with his head cast down,
The musician who wraps three chords around a bleeding heart;
We’re all just latecomers to a too-soon culture show
Screening some video we don’t want to see.
A nation of bloodstained eyes
Glued to digital screens,
Enraptured by the cathartic shock of mangled
Arms, and legs, and chests;
Now that’s okay, ‘cause it’s part of the plan;
But comment with a bitterly dark aside
Or turn despair into a clever rhyme
And they’ll crucify you.
It ain’t time for that yet, they say,
The dust hasn’t settled and the counter still rises
On the sickest viral videos we know.
But some of us don’t stand down;
Like vandals who take a knife to a painting titled “History”
We, too, bomb in Boston:
The artist, the poet, the musician,
To show the world that sometimes in suffering
We need to see,
And explosives aren’t the only things
That can remind us we’re
Not so pretty with our insides out
And our outsides in.