I sink into my gut with every sucker punch.

wounded pride turns tribal in my gut reactions.

I want to lash out.

But to resort to tribalism is the easiest thing to do right now.

I'm told to steel my will, steel my resolve, in preparation for what is to come,

Steel my will.

"Dubya" can not steal my will.

His angry words frighten me.

His wounded pride unfurled turns hearts to stone,

And I feel a growing hail of heart stones swirling around me.

My head is not forgotten, my heart is not neglected.

With each heart a stone, the debris falls around us all.

The debris is within us all.

Each person has a lump of coal in their chest.

I will not contribute to this growing landslide of intolerance.

The cycle of violence is not out there in the world,

The cycle of violence is in our hearts.

And with hearts small and cold, the cycle speeds up.

In the taxi, I could not pronounce the driver's name.

His skin was dark, his eyes milky and big.

We spoke.

He was from Afghanistan. He lost his entire family in the war when 14 million people died.

His village no longer exists.

He came here 20 years ago to start a new life after losing everything.

His eyes filled with tears.

Now he is afraid of losing everything again.

People jeer at him on the subway.

This man has courage to drive a taxi in this city with his face.

What can I do for this man except to give him a big tip?

My heart breaks a thousand times.

But when my heart breaks, let my heart break open.

Let my heart grow.

Let me not add to the hail storm.

Our streets are littered with enough debris.

I will not add my heart to that pile.

Peace,

alex

9/16/01