… would I guess be a good poetic form of address to UD’s beloved country at the moment (the phrase titles a 1925 poem by Robinson Jeffers). The Murder of Kirk becomes a singular, symbolizing, culmination, an event that rises above the murk of our bloody country’s bloody every day. Give me back my son; he was only thirty-one wails Kirk’s father at his memorial site, a one-man tragic chorus that cuts through all of it.
Our streets are pocked with juvenile assassins, skinny boys with fat rifles, schizophrenics with steady fingers. Our bottomless gun-greed means we won’t be saving ourselves anytime soon – not under a president who won election based on his own bullet wound. Thus America makes choosing our leaders easy: Not the ones with the fatal neck wounds; the ones with the non-lethal neck wounds.
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No parades, don’t you see; no sunny tented gatherings of the sort that killed Kirk. We Americans must crawl over blood and glass into bunkers while keeping an eye on the roofs and windows from which the Kirk killer and Stephen Paddock and the rest of them aim at us. We must eye one another as potential shooters.
Democracy cannot really survive the absolute death of the public realm, a realm as imperiled by our insane willingness to let incredibly dangerous people roam the streets as it is by our gun-greed. Americans continue to recite the NRA’s mentally retarded litany – “The only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is with a good guy with a gun.” – even though Utah Valley University is an open carry campus, meaning plenty of people in Kirk’s audience were armed. Lots of good guys with guns. But hey turns out they can’t do anything about a sharpshooter on a roof! Huh!