We
are all reeling but somehow not surprised at the latest
murderous rampage at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas. Once again an easily and legally
obtained assault weapon was used by a young man who just turned
18. The Texas Governor and rafts
of on-the-take from the NRA grifters in Congress warn us not to take
action to end gun violence. But
we will not be limited to thoughts and prayers but will be committed
to action. Write and phone
your Federal and State lawmakers, sign all the petitions—it
can’t hurt—Sandyhook
Promise one of several being widely circulated. March for Our Lives, the student-led
gun control advocacy group founded by Parkland school shooting survivors,
is planning nationwide protests on Saturday June 11. In Chicago the event will be held
beginning at noon that day at the Federal Plaza. Local actions may still be planned.
Over
the years I have written poetry
often, far too often, after explosions
of gun violence, mass murder, and domestic terrorism in this country. It feels like there is hardly anything else
to say—no new insights, outrage, or grief.
The parade of atrocities seems never ending, as does our by now ritualized and inadequate responses. But
however familiar they become, we cannot allow ourselves to be numbed by them. We cannot lay aside our outrage and our anger
not only against the individual
perpetrators, but those who encourage,
abet, and arm them. We must resist the culture
that fosters violence and hate and
take positive action—far more than
ever before—to stop it.
Almost
three years ago after yet another outrage—the El Paso Walmart attack—I trotted out just some—not all—of the verse I composed after previous events.
Gun violence has all too frequently been my poetic topic over the years.
You will be forgiven if you
can’t even remember some of the incidents—there have been far too many of them
and the blur over time.
Ritual
Bloodletting, Breast Beating, and Blaming
October 1,
2015
In the Wake
of Umpqua Community College Killings
Grief
stricken families, victims, and survivors
are the bullies
the launchers of vast, dark
conspiracies
and the gun worshipers and fantasy world heroes
the mewling, pitiful victims.
Step
right over the victims.
Don’t slip on the blood.
Remember what is Holy and Sacred.
…Or
we will kill you.
—Patrick Murfin
He Who Shall
Not Be Named Here
November 27,
2015
After
Colorado Springs
No! He is not Old John Brown
come round again
no matter the wild eyes
and wilder beard.
The
unborn will not rise up
and arm themselves,
to wreck vengeance on
the women who carry them
and anyone who ever
had a kind word or thought
for them.
God
is not on his side
just as He/She/It
is not on the side
righteous trigger happy cops
tempted by the backs
of Black young people.
Just
as Allah is not on the side
of fanatics in Syria, Iraq, and
Paris.
He
will never savor martyrdom,
ride to his own hanging
on his casket,
only the long, lonely oblivion
of maximum prison hole.
Despite
his yearnings
a nation will not march to war
with his name ringing in song
on hundred thousand lips.
With
luck, rivers of blood
and mountains of corpses,
families turned against families,
the land laid waste,
will not be his legacy.
With
luck.
—Patrick Murfin
What Doesn’t
Stay In Vegas
October 3,
2017
What
happens in Vegas doesn’t stay there.
It
oozes under the front door
of
that little house in Tennessee
leaving
a nasty stain in the carpet
that
will last generations.
It
drips from the empty desk
in the high school office
where the phone rings unattended
next to a famed family photo
and a jar of M & Ms.
It
is tangled in the nets
of that Alaska trawler
spilling on the deck
and splattering those rubber boots.
It
has to be wiped from the table
of that Disneyland café
by some other harried waitress
before it spoils some child’s
special day
or gets on Snow White’s costume.
It
pools by the council’s table
in a San Diego courtroom
the empty chair
unable to represent
the mother of three.
It
cannot be washed from
the filthy hands
of every politico
who took gun pushers’ cash
and kissed the ass of every
fetishist wanking himself off
to violence porn and hero
fantasies.
—Patrick Murfin
Three Holes
in the Valentine Heart
Chicago 1929
Toddlin’
Town rat-a-tat-tat,
just Jazz Age juice and justice,
Tommy guns talkin’
fedoras flying,
mugs massacred,
wanna-be eye doc,
grease monkey
garage gore gone.
“Only
Capone kills like that.”
Cool
beans!
Gangsters!
Northern Illinois University 2008
Gunman
on campus!
Good-guy grad student
gone goofy
lecture hall lesson
in shot gun blasts
and Glock gotchas.
Campus
cops closing in,
one last round
under the chin,
oblivion.
Twenty-three
down,
sixteen shot,
five dead and,
oh yeah, the perp.
Is
that all?
Piker! Ain’t no Virginia Tech!
hardly worth the weeping and
wailing
all those vigils and candlelight!
And
the NRA says all those pussy students
who didn’t pack their own heat
should have OK corralled it.
Nothing
to see here,
move along.
Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School 2018
Crazy
Cruz kid had issues,
gas mask, smoke grenades,
and a handy AK-47
extra magazines just in case.
Shoot,
pull fire alarm.
spray death, kick in doors,
spray death, repeat.
Efficient.
Thoughts
and prayers
out the wazoo today.
Blame tomorrow.
Not me, not us.
Unpreventable.
Look….a
squirrel
or Stormy Danniels’ cleavage,
any damn thing…
—Patrick Murfin
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