This Protest is a Poem
It’s three competing chants at once:
an exhalation of grief
from over-burdened lungs;
personified theme
of narratives ignored;
condensed,
cacophonous
love.
It’s three competing chants at once:
an exhalation of grief
from over-burdened lungs;
personified theme
of narratives ignored;
condensed,
cacophonous
love.
Essential giant
wants to keep us safe.
Site leaders send out the texts,
there’s been an additional confirmed case of the disease.
The affected individual was last on site
__/__/____.
Among conveyor belts and pallet jacks,
those of us still here
look around for missing faces.
Who is suddenly gone?
There’s always been a transience to the labor
but now every disappearance could be…
it.
Arrows on the floor
and walkways drawn in tape
guide us into distance as best they can,
people go the long way around
just to get out of the way,
breaking minds visible in that second, never-asked question
of what’s the best way to get around you?
Distance shortens the gap between mind and worry.
This is the deadliest, most power
natural force we’ve encountered in our lives,
crippling our whole world
and I may be standing
where it was breathing
a week ago.
Any day
I can carry it
home
with me,
a truth
we all feel.
And all we can do is take our precautions:
wash our hands and wear a mask,
shower when we get home,
maybe pray
or whatever your equivalent to prayer may be.
There’s no telling
when this crucible will end
but it will, someday.
Until then,
please,
be safe my friends.
(after Dara Horn)
I listen to the man’s rambling voice
and recognize, as if from my own
memories, the arches, the columns,
the alcove for the Torah scrolls, the water
in the ritual bath. It is like hearing someone
recount the elaborate details of a dream
in which I meet a beloved dead relative.
The past is alive, trembling within
the present; we are always walking on the dead.
It is difficult these days not to sense
an encroaching darkness. I lean toward
those glowing sparks, looking for more light.
fork – create a child
creates by duplicating.
The new is referred to as the child.
The child and the parent run in separate memory spaces.
have the same content
mappings and unmappings performed by one do not affect the other.
The child is an exact duplicate of the parent except for the following:
* The child has its own unique ID
* The child does not inherit its parent’s memory
* resource utilizations are reset to zero in the child.
* The child’s set of pending signals is initially empty
* The child does not inherit adjustments from its parent
* The child does not inherit locks from its parent
(On the other hand, it does inherit description.)
* The child does not inherit timers
The parent and child also differ with respect to the following specific attributes:
* The child does not inherit change notifications from its parent
* the child does not receive a signal when its parent terminates.
Note the following further points:
The child is created. The entire virtual space of the parent is replicated in the child, including the states, condition variables, and other objects; the use may be helpful for dealing with problems that this can cause.
On success, the child is returned in the parent
On failure, no child is created.
There are a number of limits that may trigger this error
An attempt was made to create a child
*a found poem (from Linux Man Pages)
whose names are devoured,
and whose names blossom in our mouths like rows of thorn-hooked roses?
speak.
give everyname the power to latch into your tongue.
the cursed dusky light trickles through my curtains
awakening me from dreams whose endings remain uncertain
I sit up with a yawn and try to remember what I’ve seen
but nothing slips through my fingers as easily as a dream
I despair for a moment thinking of all the stories that are gone
but I know other stories await, and it’s best to just move on.
People who don’t have a mentall illness
ask me what it’s like
to have a
mental illness
I want to tell them
it’s like having a ghost
wrap his hands around
my throat
and I am suffocating
while everyone
watches
I want to tell them
it’s as if someone crawls into
my bed at night
and whispers my worst nightmares
in my ear
like hypnosis
and I replay them every day
I want to tell them
that if I put every single person
that loves me
into a single room
I could look at all their faces
and still believe that they
don’t
I want to tell them
I have a lot of bad days
I want to tell them
I have good ones too,
but I don’t tell them
anything
because on the outside,
both days appear the same.
Today I woke up at 3 a.m.
with a migraine and a man
pressing two fingers through
my sternum trying to convince me
that that’s where my heart is.
Definitely not the mass of fat
hidden conspicuously behind his back
as if I couldn’t hear great gobbets of meat and pulp
smack the hard wood behind him. Then he led my fingers
to my neck and proved I still had a pulse.
All we can do right now
Is hope that it gets better,
That it won’t happen again,
That you come to love your world
Like we loved ours:
Sometimes begrudgingly,
But always.
We’ll try and often fail.
Know that we mean well.
Forgive your mother her deep love
And your father for much more.
You’ll have all of us.
We only ask that you carry the fire.
We don’t tell ourselves how to get born,
become teenagers,
mate and care for children,
how to grow old and die.
We don’t need to remember
the story, the story remembers us,
like the song lyrics, it’s all coming
back to me now.
Our minds don’t have to tell
our hearts to beat. Our bodies
know what to do. We are the water,
not the wave.
We are the sound of rain.
