Imagine this:
An idea emerges,
thrust forth out of the ether–
out of that great oneiric wellspring
from which
all things wrought by mankind
claim their providence.
The idea grows,
fed by a pure and purposeful idealism.
Its flames are fanned, and oh
how it glimmers in the dark!
Do you feel that warmth?
Take it, it’s free.
The reach of this charitable hearth is long,
and indiscriminate.
But sadly, it will not last.
For the news of this idea
sets in motion a terrible turning;
the machinations of desperate actors,
raking the coals of its fire
for absolution, and from what?
Inadequacy, perhaps.
Or maybe just
a lack
of imagination.
In any case, they speak
and from that dark place
they say,
sotto voce,
“Well done, well done, but
we can take it from here.”
And so they do,
all the while offering
assurances and platitudes,
their seemingly congenial manner
hiding not malice or ill-intent
or anger or even greed,
but a clear, single-minded vision,
disinterested
and unmoved by the consternations
of the righteous.
In its new home,
the idea is heralded;
deemed propitious, surely,
but by metrics
foreign to its creator.
Its moral center hollowed out,
sterilized,
and rubber stamped
as unnecessary risk.
The creator look upon this with bewilderment,
for what use is this idea now,
clamped as it is
withing the gaping maw
of its captor?
Its great flattening
its own special form of violence,
insidious in its aimlessness,
in its cool and infinite complacency.
Nevertheless, the idea lives on,
but can it be said, truly
to be alive?
For in what state is a thing
that wanders
in that strange realm
outside the margins
of morality?
In this place of divine banishment
the dogs bark
and the caravan passes,
and those desperate actors
carry on
in their unending
and indifferent
silence.
Derek Tepe 