Elegy for Orlando Pulse Club Victims of Violence


The clouds that I admired on that lovely evening

that lingered over this valley (so far from you)

are no longer there. They floated long enough

for me to admire them and discover what “beauty” was.


But the next morning they were nowhere to be found;

they’d moved on, emigrated to another sky, moved by

or into the light, changed into another form, rained down

on someone’s garden to help create a new memory

of a perfect summer tomato, fell into the great sea

and made the sea less briny…


The clouds t’ain’t here no more…

just like a tomato blossom doesn’t stay a tomato blossom,

just like you have to pick the tomato and destroy it with your

teeth to know its ultimate beauty, just like a raindrop in the sea

won’t stay on the same shore when the gravity of the ancient moon

draws it to another coast.


The clouds t’ain’t here no more…

just like the thump of dance music has dinned and the

thump and crack of gunshots have subsided, just like

the fear is quelled and the terror dispelled.


Your energy has changed to peace;

our energy has turned to storm clouds.


How do I honor your transformation?

Do I try to emulate the triumph of your beauty?

Or do I make homage to Einstein’s equation of relativity?


What do I say to the leaders of institutions

who wanted to comfort those you left behind

but refused to name the whole of you, refused to bear witness

to all of your beauty?


What do I say to the congressman who claims that

you weren’t beautiful enough to elicit change?

What do I say to the congressman who refuses to acknowledge

change in confrontation of your exquisite metamorphoses?


Storm clouds… storm clouds…


I am in the predicament, again, that the sky I prayed to

has mutated with the latest cold front, and in the torrent

of breezes I have to remind myself, again, that

anger is like drinking poison and expecting that

the object of my ire will die…

Better to give gratitude to the ever-flowing mutability,

and know the blasphemous, fearful worshippers of constancy

bow to a false and imaginary god.


The clouds t’ain’t here no more…

that’s how I know that you’re forever.



Pulse Nightclub Massacre Victims


[I have a proclivity for taking pictures of the sky. Below is a gallery of photos of various cloud formations that I have taken over the years…as beautiful and ephemeral and fleeting and unique as each of the lives that were lost to the violent terror in Orlando. Click on any image to open the photos in larger view…]



Copyright © 2016 by Virtue Centered Tarot.  All rights reserved.  Contents of this site may not be reproduced without prior written consent. Words and images in this blog post (with the exceptions of gallery images no. 23, 25, 26, and 28) are my own.





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