White hot rage

White hot rage surges through me at random moments interspersed throughout the day.

I see a tiny granule of black turf rubber lodged into the small crack where the dishwasher meets my kitchen floor.

Rage surges threefold, in concentric rings spiraling outward.

First, the mundane rage.

That I’m the only one in the universe who will notice, let alone deign to do something about, all the random physical detritus that pseudo-invisibly accumulates throughout the days, weeks and years.  And how I’m certain that that same sentiment will play through a million mothers’ brains in a million houses just today.

Second, the rage against the political machine.

That tiny piece of black rubber is made from discarded tires.  Tires, that when discarded and left whole, must be treated as hazardous waste.  But tires that, when chopped up into tiny pieces, are somehow magically absolved of their hazardous properties and deemed appropriate for use in children’s turf fields throughout the United States.  And how my mental calculus about whether the benefits of youth sports outweigh the cons now needs to include the risk of blood cancer.  

Third, the rage against the human condition.

How I’m certain that it’s a fucking privilege to be angry about any of this when the world no longer even blanches at - let alone effectively acts upon - the unspeakable brutalities committed against tiny babies and women and families each day.

White hot rage is simultaneously delicious and corrosive.

It spurs us to act.  And eats away at our will to live.

Exposing fire to the open makes the flame brighter.
​
We don’t need no water, let the motherfucker burn.