Child Rape is Not Enough to Enrage

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It’s time, Ed Murray, it’s time to step down.

Yes, you’re white and male and powerful,

a slap on the wrist, some mild embarrassment

is, truly, all you thought to expect.

After all, we have a rapist as the President,

who uses the words “cunt,” “pig” and “nasty”

as his gentleman’s vocabulary.

A real lady killer, or he would be if

he thought the apathy was enough that he could be.

Why should you, Ed “Child Rapist” Murray,

mayor of men (of women? of raped little children?),

be more than mildly upset by the lawsuit

that might inconvenience you.

“All sins are equal under the eyes of God.”

Tell that to the voters, look for sympathetic nods.

Oh, no worries, you’ll get them.

Where I live those who molest are also able

to skate by unnoticed.

They will not be jailed, made to face the blood on their hands,

the stain of unwanted touching that men

who were boys, were boys, were boys…are boys

taught to touch anything? To take whatever they need?

“But women touch, too…”

let’s justify an epidemic need to equate everyone’s evil,

so that nothing is evil, no group is more to blame, ignore statistics,

make a god of fame,

especially when the famous wear power suits and can pay for silence.

Fuck you, Ed Murray. I strip you of your title.

You have no power over me,

and unless Seattle cries out in shame,

removing your disgusting legacy from our name,

I will not call this home.

Step down, step down, step down,

from your protected throne.

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Stronger Ties

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There is a soft sentimentality that connects me to many of you, a sometimes fraying line of thin memory that lightly binds us. That one time in high school, that shared friend, that space we both occupied with smiles and laughter. We, when we meet, are a fond handshake. An appreciated recognition.

For some (You), a select few, our tie is less temporary. Our embrace is life-giving, body trembling anxiety to hold the shell who houses the soul we treasure. We are a cable-connection of warm grasps, entwined fingers, tears soaked into skin, swapped straws over sweating drinks, piggy back rides down hills where our footfalls created a beaten trail. Some of us are the spark of knowing, the gaze that projects words unsaid, the unspoken understanding of passions returned, the too-late nights over appetizers and nodding. Yes, yes: youknowmeiknowyouweknow. We know not every day that we toil, cry, pray, rage, but we know the youthatwillnotchange.

This knowing youme cannot be earned via social media, I’m afraid. Though, much of it withstands the tarnish of weathering winds, blows to ego, stale silence, computer violence over politics and cliques of years spanned and different understanding, some of it falls to forgetting.

You. “Who me?” you think. Of course you, the you who moves my blood to pumping, a half-smile or whole-hearted laugh to my lips. You brought joy to me when our heartbeats fell in time to chests meeting in embrace, when our hands joined, our eyes locked in understanding that we are who we were, though older. Not wiser. We know how much we don’t know and how much there is to not know and how far the distance will keep us from that knowing. And our cable-bond will hopefully not shatter if we can remember the way youme feel. Because even ties like these are not impenetrable. But they are strong.

That is who you are to me, apart from the shallow glow of your computer screen, text, rare call. You are my beloved and you have fueled my worth. For that, I thank you.