stork daddy when he was younger,
he used to have images in his mind,
he saw all of the characters
in history's passion plays,
in himself, or on the schoolyard.
when he learned about nazis,
he had a terrible time
because he used to see
smiling fathers in the town
he lived in,
and he somehow knew
that though it was taught as safe
in distant and vanquished history,
that somedays even
the dirtiest,
the closest to the blood,
the butchers,
with aprons of choring motions,
would perhaps on any given day,
see the sun shine a certain way,
tell their children something
at home that would make any child
laugh. that would've made him laugh.
and he always was watching people.
his friend died when they were both 17.
and his father had his first smile
after the death
later in that very day.
surely the transgression of
this father smiling
is not equivalent to
the sickening image he used to see.
of that laughter,
childish laughter echoing up
history in each new day.
was it the banality of evil,
or the evil of banality?
for his own part,
there was a time
he counted each lie he told in a day,
tallied the good against the bad,
oversaw some of it,
tried to see past
the stormcone
of a moment,
tried to be more
than the tunnelvision
of a raccoon snouting
through a trashcan.
but he grew too tired
to keep recoiling.
it seemed,
so many of us are evil,
just lucky enough to not harm
anyone by it.
he wanted proof otherwise.
not from others,
he saw others do good
or what appeared good
all the time.
it was not enough.
he wanted to know,
that he would tear
the sun out of the sky
refuse to go on.
steal laughter from his
own child because
after doing so much wrong,
it was the only right thing to do.
ergo It is in the I of the beholder 101218
() (see: banal) 101219
minnesota_chris You have to write what you know about, even if it seems completely insignificant. 101220
what's it to you?
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