A Eulogy for Anxiety.
by Lester Mayers
If Paris is still burning, then Brooklyn gots to be freezing, and anywhere in between must be
freezer-burned or so overcooked it's unsafe to consume. Either way, we are; we are all at risk of
contamination. We must find a new examination to measure life because the money we've been
loading on spoons of exhaustion, shoving down our thoughts, is making us so sick we've started
regurgitating, confusing medicinal with conventional.
And for what, to struggle to make a living and feed death so easily?
There is no traditional form of healing to solidify the validity of our culture without the
discouragement of unnecessary competition. Something has got to change before changes
gather us to a place where more children visit graveyards to see their friends than they do at the
park. Or to a place where legacies are buried, death is a song on repeat, and sex is a federal
warrant to arrest those who make a choice when pregnant—a place where love is a funny mood
in lieu of emotions.
Or is it too late? Are we already there? Is tomorrow equipped enough to balance France's heat
and New York's bitter coldness?
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Will tomorrow ever come?
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Dear Martin,
Ugh...
When I finally master my peace, who will be the enslaved?
It's time to wake up; your sleep can't be that good.
The dream must be disturbed.
