They, whoever they are, tacked on
One final second to the end
Of the year. Hateful 2016 skips

Death for one more beat, unlike
Prince, Leia, thousands of rebels
And Syrian civilians, Bowie,

Black men, gay men, hispanic
Gay men, trans-men and women,
Women, water, the democratic process

And any sense of dignity. Lucky
Bastard. I–and I’m certain I’m not
Alone–want to get rowdy drunk

(As is the American way) and break
Down sobbing at what’s passed and
What fearful unknown is to come. But

I won’t. And you? Don’t. Instead
Grab that extra fucking second
We’ve been forced through

By the powers that be that have no
Power to speak of, and live out the year
In full-throated knowing what is

Is now. Be loud about the year that took
so much. Be louder about the hopeful
who-knows? wildness of what’s next.

Press right up against the false edge
Of time, every nerve ending you
are tingling, as one we all contract

into a massive blackstar, screaming
For everything we’re worth, streaming
Full of light into the new.

That final second, overwhelmed
By such bright resolve, expends one last
breath and then explodes.

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One Response to Blackstar

  1. Words so beautiful and kind and true. Saw this on facebook earlier today and it beckoned me back this evening to sit with your words a little longer. Thank you.

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