from screens and screens,
airport corridors and the adjoining seat,
grocery store lines and rush hour traffic
manufactured outrage -
a pointed explosive perfectly aimed
with its hateful,
hot lava vomit,
any trace of what actually is:
the slow, unfolding movement of body-bound human reality.
because it is,
all the time -
that glacially paced
of human existence,
drawing out drama for weeks or months or millenia.
babies take decades to die.
love needs years to take hold.
cancer holds out over slow, quiet months.
infuriated, we look for a fault,
a valve to release a little steam,
to allow ourselves to keep boiling,
life is too slow for us,
too gradual for our instant messages
and too long-winded to fit
in a facebook update.
so what else are we to do?
emote all over ourselves.
and in the momentary catharsis
forget how much is left to come,
how many fellow slowgrowers we're leaving
the wake of our lava leaks.
better to simmer a while,
to linger a little longer,
to give the unfolding its due time
than to spit vitriol in an
ill-fated attempt to wrestle
God's own chronology
into our stuffy little notions
of what ought to be