When Bad Men Die, an Occasional Poem

 

When Bad Men Die, an Occasional Poem

 

They are nothing

if not contempt—

able to look in the eyes

of the children

when they lock the cages;

 

able to breathe calm air

when they brace their boot

on a man who begs for mercy;

 

able to count their stocks

and call their broker

when the world is breaking;

 

able to scorn wearing masks

when vans abduct

innocent people protesting—

 

they do not wear the mask—

they care not why the caged bird sings—

 

they offer praise to rapists, traitors, petty thieves.

 

They follow orders; they

believe in lone wolf disorders; they

ignore when bounty is placed on troops; they

praise the good in Nazi groups; they

breathe the same air as I breathe; they

die the same deaths that I grieve.

 

If tomorrow the orange menace were to die,

I'd shed no tear, not one, not I—

 

I don't believe in God—

Nor heaven, nor hell.

 

Yet, I'll wish no man to die—

even if I do not wish him well.

 

They can't care less if their enemies die;

But that is them, the opposite of I.

 

I will not wish that he rest in peace—

for there is nothing now; life is all.

 

There is no special, later grace—

there never was a time before the fall.

 

When I count the dead—I'll count him, too,

because that is what good people do.

 

If I do not praise nor will I dance

on graves of evil men; the chance

to cry, righteously, I told you so!

does nothing useful, as far as I know.

 

It is not mourning that I feel—

it's that each death, each one, is real,

 

so I acknowledge each one, my enemies, too,

because that is what good people do.

________

I wrote this poem the day that Herman Cain died. Admittedly, at the time I was thinking about the Kaddish scene from Angels in America. Last week, I had cause to return to that scene to meditate on the passing of Ruth Bader Ginsburg--you can also find that post on this blog. For Ginsburg, I was sad; for Cain I was troubled. Cain had been a marginal figure in American life with no real influence, but when he ran for president and in his public appearances since, he stood for beliefs I found repellant. And he was an ardent supporter of Trump--which likely led to his death as most observers believe he contracted the coronavirus while attending Trump's ill-conceived Tulsa Rally. 

Though in truth my thoughts in this poem stem from the death of Muammar Gaddafi, of all people, back in 2011. He was, no doubt, an evil man who caused enormous suffering. He was, finally, deposed, at which point he was killed in the streets by a gunshot. Footage of his death, and the moments preceding it, circulated online and on some news shows, and even though I recognize the righteousness of the anger directed at him and, possibly, the necessity to execute him lest he rally supporters and prolong deadly civil strife--death is death. It is brutal and final. It is never to be celebrated nor praised. 

A reminder to every John Wayne loving American who thinks it's cool to carry a gun so they can shoot the bad guy who tries to rob the gas station--or whatever Owen Wister-esque fantasy that kind of person has in mind--death is not easy. The bad guys don't just fall over dead at the first shot nor immediately disappear from the screen, faceless, nameless henchmen adding to a body count a la every Marvel film. They are people. They lived full lives; they had consciousness. Their lives are over. They are not just props in films about the heroism of competing jingoisms. Our propensity to believe such narratives and, even worse, watch them without thinking about their implications is not something I would call a virtue of American life.

But this poem, today, on October 3, 2020 is not about Herman Cain, much less Gaddafi or deluded American gun-lovers who think killing people is neither messy nor much less simple than as seen on TV. 

I am posting this poem today because "the orange menace" is in the hospital with coronavirus. He has tweeted just this morning that he is fine, but some of the circumstances of his hospitalization have alarmed medical experts (and national security experts). The press is not adding clarity to the possible disinformation coming from White House officials. And anyone who has believed this virus is real and deadly knows that it doesn't just go away and things can turn bad quickly. It is, right now, one hell of a moment in our political life (Political: from Greek, pertaining to the city . . . though not an any hill).

The day of Trump's diagnosis, the state of Mississippi decided NOT to renew its mask mandate. Yesterday, the Republican-leaning Michigan Supreme Court overturned the governor's emergency declaration to combat COVID-19. In Wisconsin, Republicans make a lot of grumbling noises about challenging the current mask mandate executive order, which is already a watered down mandate since the governor's original order was also overturned in court by Republican-appointed judges. 

Today, after months of the president's own mongering of conspiracy theories, including saying the virus affects "virtually nobody," and months of Republican indifference to the shocking pain and suffering and death happening in America--which is poised to eclipse 210,000 deaths this weekend and 7.5 million reported infections--Twitter determined that it would remove posts that wish the president dead. 

On Facebook and other social media, as well as in opinion pieces and editorials from credible media sources, much discussion is ensuing about karma, the requirements (or lack thereof) for empathy or "thoughts and prayers" (notably, former president Obama, presidential candidate Biden, and speaker Pelosi all issued statements within hours of news of Trump's diagnosis wishing him well and hoping for his speeding recovery).

I have several friends who are less inclined to offer well wishes. I do not judge that response. In fact, I want to second it. And I don't know if that is, in the moral arc of the universe, wrong. Assuming there is a moral arc and not just people, many of whom have suffered very long as a direct result of the horrors of these last four year not including this virus and its effects. Even today, there are still children in cages; women are being forced to have hysterectomies against their will; politicians are rooting on murderers who attack unarmed protesters in the street--you know, just a smattering of daily life right now. And then there is the virus. 

What are we supposed to feel when bad things happen to bad people? I don't know.

_______

*Shout out to Gwendolyn Brooks--savvy readers might recognize the nod to her poem "We Real Cool" in the poem above.