Rites of the Tear-Downers
by Margaret Ann Alice
I understand why the
narrative-believers
dismiss,
discount, and
despise
the
truth-
speakers:
menticide.
I understand why the
injected
duck,
dodge, and
deny
the
evidence-collectors:
fear.
I understand why the
trolls
mosquito-bite,
spitball, and
hair-pull
the
freedom-
defenders:
hate.
I understand why the
propagandists
slur,
scorch, and
snipe
the
corruption-
exposers:
bribery.
I understand why the
politicians
kafkatrap,
quarantine, and
terrorize
the
tyranny-
resisters:
blackmail.
I understand why the
agencies
bully,
degrade, and
shame
the
policy victims:
corruption.
I understand why the
governments
surveil,
silence, and
strong-arm
the
critical thinkers:
power.
I understand why the
corporations
fact-choke,
blitz, and
bot-attack
the
dangerously credible:
profit.
I understand why the
philanthropaths’
string-pullers,
puppets,
tyrants, and
figureheads
concentrate the
noncompliant:
depopulation.
I
don’t understand why those who claim to value truth, freedom, and love
purity-test, subvert, and
side-stab those fighting
totalitarianism with them.
I
don’t understand why they castigate, insinuate, and berate
those accomplishing substantive strides toward our mutual goals.
I
don’t understand why they squander life pummeling down instead of lifting up,
dividing instead of
uniting, demoralizing instead of inspiring.
I’m not talking about those sharing verifiable proof of bad actors
or
calling out a
supposed ally for
demonstrable harm.
I’m talking about the ones who presume
the power to see into others’ hearts;
the ones who proclaim the words, actions, and life’s work
of others mere masks for maleficent motives;
the ones who purport the ability to identify
the fakes, the frauds, and the phonies;
the ones drenched in paranoia,
bitterness, and envy.
You know the ones.
Don’t they have any beauty to scatter,
like nasturtium seeds in a fallow meadow?
Don’t they have any wisdom to spread,
like worm castings over hungry soil?
Don’t they have any truth to drizzle,
like summer rain caressing the earth?
Don’t they have any hope to shine,
like sunlight coaxing seedlings skyward?
If they were infused with the joy of creation,
the pride of work well-done,
the satisfaction of collaboration with kindreds,
there would be no room left
for suspicion,
for spite,
for sabotage.
Their spirits would be brimming with gratitude,
their minds spinning with ideas,
their feet pattering to the next project.
They would awaken to each day
with the zeal of an otter eager to swim,
a runner lacing up her shoes,
a visionary sketching an invention.
They would be too busy
forging their own path
toward their singular mission
to notice the foibles of
others.
They would be too wonderstruck
to wallow,
to whine,
to whisper.
So what if we don’t agree on everything?
We’re explorers, not followers.
So what if we don’t think the same?
We’re water, not stone.
So what if we don’t trod the same trail?
We’re mapping, not paving.
The tear-downers fill
their moody minds
with phantasms,
their vacant souls
with gossip,
their hollow hearts
with carrion.
They are bulimics
who can never
feel sated;
addicts who
can only find
stimulation outside
themselves;
agnosiacs who
babble gibberish
because meaning
escapes them.
They whip their chainsaws
through limbs
like a toddler
stomping on snails.
They deem themselves gods,
all-seeing,
all-knowing,
end-alling.
They are the righteous heroes
of their narcissistic fantasies,
stepping-stone their way up
on the carcasses of their slain.
They sell scalps
for sway,
stories
for spotlights,
skins
for silver.
Soon,
there will be no
one left to
spear,
no one left
to solicit,
no one
left to swindle,
no
one
left.
And that is how
the tear-downers
clearcut a forest,
that is how they
smother a fire,
that is how they
find themselves
alone
in a wasteland
of their own
tearing.