Queer

 

I try to imagine living in a little box, no light, a small
window to see out of but constricted-awkward-filtered, a slice
of a view…not a complete picture never complete…I
have to imagine what I can’t see, guess
to protect myself from whatever is hidden, whomever.

My box is next to another box and I can talk to him, in it, like
me…another on the other side, a million, a billion but farther, I can’t
see-hear-feel them close…I am told they are there so I think that
they are like me, like me even though it’s dark and I really don’t
know who-what-how I am…I just believe it; a thing that isn’t real.

I imagine I was born in the box, lived my life am living my life inside
the box and what I see is a partial view out there because the window
just isn’t big enough to see the whole of anything…so I imagine and 
ask the box next to me and another another another about
what they see, the things they think, the things they know.

I imagine hoping that asking questions gives me knowledge which
will widen the window but I can’t ask what people don’t see, have to
believe what they say…have to stitch it together with faith and sadness
and feel the unity that occurs when belief is the only thing that stands
between safety and madness.

It occurs to me that this is all I have; what the box next to me knows plus
another another another another but only within calling distance, only
as far as the small window will let me look, only what I can see and
I am scared of dying…we all are…and I am scared of what I can’t see
so we make it into something real, make it an enemy to focus on.

A ripple of conversation…from far away and from very close…cascades
across boxes for a long time; describing what I can’t see by adding what other
boxes can’t see until we have something “real” we’ve never seen but
are all sure exists…we just believe…and it assures us, it is what we are, what
we are singularly committed to (that thing that isn’t real).

I live in my box and believe in the thing that our boxes believe in…
when we are threatened…by motions we partially see, kind of hear, sort of touch
we feel stronger–brother boxes–a group as a united front toward
the threat, the lie, the difference between what I know (that thing that isn’t real)
and what my window can’t ever show me (another thing that isn’t real).

Things have names…fear has names…the cascading conversation spreads
them and unites us behind them…we believe them because we believe
them because we believe them because…another another another and still
my window never widens…I can only see the shared threat and we call out
in unison;

Queer
Communist
Nigger
Liberal
Neocon
Kike
Dago
Terrorist
Pedophile
Socialist…

…and another another another another…
one box
to
another box.

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