Lamar Howell's Weblog

I feel no alibi, no friend

can understand what grips at my chest

and wads my shirt up in its fist

What bitterness I taste in every gulp of air

that was once free

How the American flag in the breeze

mocks, indicts, condemns me – deep magenta in its shame

How I grieve, nearly loathe the masked wanderers

on our streets and in our stores

How heavy freedom must have become

for them to loose it so easily from their shoulders

and let it fall

Cloaks of history lie rain-soaked under trampling feet

Garlands of past victories hang from every fencepost

unable to take root

so far from the rich soil of culture

Language itself is oxymoronic

Babel all over again

The constant drone of Siric syrupy sweet voices

telling us not to be near human skin

Never to touch, embrace, or feel someone’s breath again

Or see a smile

In this dark addiction to safety

I feel oppressed but

I have no alibi

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I am back on WordPress because Facebook has become so superficial. People only read about two sentences before they jump to something else. I need to write for thinkers, not perusers.

I prophesied at Shady Grove Church in 1986 that God was going to let America fall by her own designs. I am glad that it did not happen. There’s no one happier than a false prophet, Jonah. Right? I fasted seven days after receiving that word before I delivered it. Not that that validates it, but it shows how serious I took it.

In 2016 the Supreme Court ruled in June that same-sex marriage was a constitutional right. The next Sunday (I think), was a July 4th celebration and our church sang “God Bless America.” I sobbed uncontrollably throughout the whole song.

What will I do now? Is patriotism an indispensable part of me? I wonder if threads of our flag weave their way through my gut, and if tiny white stars get caught in my throat and choke me. If I’m to be flagellated with red stripes.

Americanism is set in me like Portland cement. But I see it draining from this generation’s minds and souls like sand from a leaky paper bag. It’s all over the streets and boots are crunching it rhythmically, unceasingly, carelessly.

Men and women in boots, warring against hope.

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