Blood fantasies (a poem)

A new typewriter poem—a random phrase and a season 2 episode of The Handmaid’s Tale

Struck twelve
the lance positively glows
kept in waiting
to fulfill its future
as a jewel in the crown of civilization

Where everything has its place
and there’s a place for everything
what does not fit
may be retrofitted
to the ideal

Now those are in short supply these days
people are looking back
instead of ahead

has become the only true growth industry
its output spilling everywhere

The means of production
cannot be stopped
though some do try
only to be shouted down
in short bursts
threaded together
to form The Great American Manifesto
for the Twenty-first Century
soon to be available
in hardback
from your favorite local bookseller
where you may spend your afternoons
drinking coffee
holding meetings
and playing board games
just off the foyer

This will help you forget
those who do not forgive
especially those who do not forgive you

Ignorance is not innocence
but bliss may be bliss

Some days I long to be ignorant
so that I might not know
what I do not know
nor wish to know it

I knew the most
when I knew only a little

They do say that only a little will do
and prove it to us every day

And so our fantasy lives grow dark
and our fantasies darker

Blood becomes the ink
with which they are drawn
the darker the stain
the more we lose
the tighter we grip
the more we struggle

However much blood we spill
we do not want to be alone

I think I hear the bells
chiming noon

(26 May 2018)