My annus horribilis, their punch in the kisser: no matter the direction, my vows are bunk as promissory notes, my outrage trashed like an online petition answered “fuck off” and every signature shredded for the triumphal march’s tickertape.
Faced with a season of settling scores, this year I resolve fewer tête-à-têtes, more headlocks; if the oceans boil, I’ll dowse for water, remove my filters and head out into our land— close by yet vast— and gulp down dreck and hate as base materials for our world yet unmade.
I’ll alchemize it all into a firework, held out lit to friend and foe as though I might blow a common language into life. I turn my one good ear to listen for the burst.
