I live in a town where organic, local fare reigns supreme and there is but one franchise where I can buy my mass-produced, rubber-brush, chemical mascara: Target—that red encircled wonder where hipsters flock to stay hip and purchasing more than one cotton/spandex T-shirt and colorful socks that bear holes with one wear, feels powerful.
While American-pretty, God-washed zealots try to sting Planned Parenthood, National Public Radio, try to capture national and state Congress and hold us hostage on the edge of the Lake of Fire; while infertile-looking folk with dirty baby dolls and gross signs, babble angry travesty into our neighbors’ ears as they enter the only non-judgmental, comprehensive healthcare clinic around; there appear to be vast cracks in our manmade inventions, our towers of potential nuclear disasters.
Vast cracks in our handlings of our planet, our life bread. Vast cracks in the bounty of our smaller delights (shopping at Target to afford everything while next door neighbors get laid off and global neighbors Made in China get dismally, dreadfully paid off). Vast cracks in mis-talk and publicized fantasy about healthcare and well-being. Ever going to see the cracks before it’s too late. Never wanted the earth to fury for someone’s so-sad, daddy dream.
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