The Pulse of Orlando

(Read as a lead in to spoken word for Maxbeth in light of the tragedy that befell Orlando, FLA, and the world as a whole)

I want to be singing from the mountaintops, from the rooftops, from the hilltops; to pull out all the stops, let the beat drop, and from these stair tops proclaim in the name of all that is good and endures that this land is your land, though, out east in Orlando someone took many more than a few shots as a harbinger of hate; which is what it wants, for us to get caught up as it flaunts fears misguided, and taunts, intended to be divisive. 

       It wants us to give up and be caught off guard, to be sawed off the right arm from the body perceived right. Like a thief in the night, it comes to take the hopes, dreams, and love we have in our hearts for both our friends and our counterparts, for ones with good intents, and who need a helping start.            

      For, in the end we amount to hearts that live and breathe, and strive to dream. So I stand atop these stairs like the side of a Babylonian stream.

       This land is OUR land, and hate can’t take it away. We’re on the same team. With you, I choose to play. I know you could be not far off, at the Reno Arch dark, or at a vigil on Wells tonight, this very day. You may have the sudden urge to help but not know how quite, or in what way.

        Fifty known dead. Fifty three more injured. That’s five times the size of this cast to a head, a void in the destroyed universe that’s disturbed.

          We stand as a band, trying to understand how we can forever make and equate love being stronger than fear, and hope being stronger than hate.

           So before we dim the lights and display this play to show the unending metaphysical cycle of violence; I’d solemnly ask, on this gray Sunday, that we bow our heads in a moment of silence.


Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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