the killing

They did not just stop the future;

they killed it with their bare hands.

They threw giants hooks

the size of bowling bowls

attached to chains

onto every electric post and power plant

and with the strength of a hundred —

maybe even a thousand — angry men

pulled them down onto the ground.

 

They ransacked the libraries,

even personal collections from people’s homes,

of books written in the past two hundred years

and gathered it into a huge pile,

along with scientific journals, spreadsheets,

posters, billboards, even CDs and DVDs,

especially the art house fare.

None were spared.

 

They tore buildings, theatres, cinemas,

strip bars, gay clubs, massage parlors,

billboards, gadget stores, convenience stores,

meditation rooms, art galleries, and research centers.

 

They dug their fingers

into the gravel, the stone, the cement,

and tore away at it for weeks

rending them unrecognizable

except as rubble, debris, and ruins.

 

The piles of books and paper

they doused with gasoline

and set it ablaze; a towering inferno

miles high that covered the sky

in a black cloud that covered the sun.

 

In the darkness they mobbed the thinkers,

the critics, the pundits, the dissenters,

the rebels, the revolutionaries, the visionaries,

the fence-sitters, the homosexuals, the atheists,

the poets, the writers, the dreamers,

the fortune-tellers, and the scholars.

 

They beat them to a bloody pulp,

called them names while they cried for mercy,

and spat at them before they delivered the killing blow.

The streets run red with blood.

 

Blood on the rubble, blood on the ruins.

 

It had come to this.

They killed the future,

re-enacting the bloody wars

of the past.

 

They clung to their ways so tightly,

they covered the world

in a impenetrable darkness;

a fortress made of their fear

and their hate.

 

 

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