ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE 

So now we’ve set the scene. 

The props have been placed, 

the lights have been dimmed,  

actors are waiting in the wings 

and the opening theme is a crescendo 

of March’s coming ide. 

Revelations of revolutions 

birthed centuries ago 

as the stages were set. 

Now you will see.  

The terror 

The insecurity 

And its birthplace can be hard to find. 

Perception and misperception compound 

as space-time bends back and forth, 

warping this collective memory of what the year of 

two-thousand and twenty meant. 

The death, loss, and loathing all 

fueling the question of 

who to blame? 

What playwright gave us this script? 

For the guns and the bees, 

and the white supremacy. 

And what if the answer is more radically simple  

than you’re ready for? 

What if the age-old question our current problem of 

violence 

is only 

capitalism? 

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

We’re only left with one master to blame.

SEPTEMBER IN PARIS 

Fear not,  

ye great men of wealth and pomp,  

When we make good on our promises 

to divorce your necks from your heads 

‘Terror, terror!’ 

You’ll say. 

‘Yes!’ We’ll cry back. 

Always this terror, with you by our sides. 

Always this terror, this being deprived. 

‘Order, order!’ 

You’ll scream. 

‘Yes!’ We’ll sigh back. 

We want a good old-fashioned order to it all. 

None of this business, barely able to crawl. 

‘Peace, peace!’  

You’ll cry, dragged from your beds. 

‘Of course.’ We’ll reply. 

There will be peace when you’re dead. 

‘Mercy, mercy!’ 

You’ll plead. 

We pause. 

‘What’s that?’ 

The look on your faces is transcendent 

when you realize that wasn’t something you 

let us learn to give. 

Tu savais pas? 

Terrible things happen to kings.