Copyright Rodion Kutsaev
“GUILT ISN’T GOING TO HELP
YOUR FRIENDS OF COLOR.”
I already dropped the swords I bought,
since it’s not like I can afford to die
in a hospital
in the first place.
It’s alright. I wasn’t really trained to hold
or use them,
while piloting a hang glider for the first time,
to begin with.
So it’s just as well that I’m looking up,
and I’m reading this advertisement
scrawled across the kind of blimp
they used to build for pulp magazine covers
in the 1920s. Or so I’ve read somewhere.
Who knew blimps were still popular?
Were there more horrible surprises this year,
as opposed to last year being the longest year
on emotional and spiritual record,
or am I just getting sick
from all of this terrible, miserable information
that’s going around and around?
And then probably around again.
I look at the message on the blimp again.
Probably another five minutes,
before I’m back at the bottom of the new slapstick
animation skyscraper they just put up.
The Nazis are back in town.
No, I know. They never, ever left.
But they’re down there.
And I just wanted to help,
but I’ve lost a lot of faith
in my aim,
or whether or not they are even down there anymore.
It took a long time to work up the courage
and the lungs to climb the shifty stairs
of the last nine floors.
I see the blimp one more time,
and I wonder who thought it was a good idea
to use the topic of white guilt
to sell yet another line of sexy Donald Trump
cyberpunk Halloween costumes.
Or are those for the War on Christmas?
“GUILT ISN’T GOING TO HELP
YOUR FRIENDS OF COLOR.”
Now they tell me.
Oh well.
See you on the ground.
