Sometimes
you get the quaint feeling
you are speaking
to an answering machine.
Not a person.
Not a witness.
Not a citizen
with blood behind the eyes.
Just a little plastic box
in the hallway of history
blinking red,
blinking red,
blinking red,
saying:
Can’t be true.
Can’t be true.
Can’t be true.
And then—
oh my God,
it is true.
And then—
that’s absolutely insane.
And then—
what the fuck.
And then it starts again.
Can’t be true.
Can’t be true.
Can’t be true.
Oh my God, it is true.
That’s absolutely insane.
What the fuck.
A whole life on one track.
A whole country on one track.
A whole century
with its needle stuck
in the same burning groove.
People knocking on doors
that never open.
People shouting facts
into rooms padded with denial.
People carrying proof
like a body in their arms
while the world says:
please leave a message
after the tone.
And the tone never ends.
So here is the message:
We are not crazy
for noticing the fire.
We are not rude
for naming the smoke.
We are not extreme
for refusing to spend our entire lives
politely explaining
that the wound is real
while everyone rehearses shock
as if shock were innocence.
Can’t be true
is not a politics.
Can’t be true
is not a conscience.
Can’t be true
is the lullaby
of people who sleep
through other people’s emergencies.
And we are done
whispering into machines.
We are done
being background noise
to a system
that only wakes up
when the truth becomes impossible
to monetize, deny, or bury.
Because yes—
it is true.
Yes—
it is insane.
Yes—
what the fuck.
And now
the question is not
whether the message was received.
The question is
who keeps pressing replay,
and who finally
walks over,
rips the tape out,
and says:
Enough.
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