Columbine. Sandy Hook. Route 91. Pulse. Pittsburgh Synagogue.
So many tragedies that it’s become a list,
a statistic, a common occurrence.
Just one angry deed among many,
occasionally worthy of momentary fame
as tragedy gives way to normalcy
for I am calloused to catastrophe.
Why doesn’t it hurt me
someone is hurting?
When I hear of mass murder,
I murmur momentarily
and move on with monotony.
Borderline Bar and Grill.
That’s not a statistic. That’s my home.
My home is small, aesthetic restaurants
usually seafood, Mexican, or burgers
and family-owned bars, public parks,
the disc golf course behind the high school,
the coarse, wet sand of Zuma Beach at high tide,
hours spent hiking trails high and low in Wildwood,
or the plastic boothes of In-N-Out Burger.
One of the safest towns in the state – in the country.
Borderline Bar and Grill, a respected establishment
with weekly college nights of lively line dancing.
My home has been violated.
My home has been shot, a wound still bleeding,
a wound that reopened countless others
that should have hurt far more than I let them.
Break the cycle.
This is a crisis
of unparalleled proportions
and of unsurmounted apathy.
I hear the pop
of a news post
but do not stop to mourn.
If not in the evening,
then by the next morning,
I have even forgotten.
My state of mind is not mindful of my state.
This country has been pushed to its breaking point,
to the end of its frayed rope. To its borderline.