I cannot get a grip on this–
race replacement theory, genocide, violent intolerance.
Nor can I find an endpoint–
words and prayer; poetry, maybe; a mural, perhaps.
–Ahhhhh!—
I grab a long piece of eighteen-gauge waxed cord,
a few yards of blackened jute, half dozen pieces of hemp,
a nice sized piece of bright red felt
and begin the art of knot making,
one small circle expanding outwards,
the three ropes in harmony,
and then they grab the felt with sharp claws
tightening knots until it bleeds.
Then they grasp metal and wooden splinters,
broken pieces of nature, the fractured shaft of an arrow.
Together they cover its head forcing it down
as if it were an upside-down horse shoe
leaking its animosity and negativity into the ground.
I carry it to the clock downtown, Main Street,
cut a hole in its center opening it to the wind.
My dream catcher a nightmare seeker
devouring all of the anger and hate dividing us.
In the morning–hopefully– everywhere everything
the sweet scent of shades of purple within gentle.
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