Dear readers: I am restless but not in despair. Yes. I like to sneak artfully through the branches like the blue jay but alas for me I am just a man with an ordinary taut heart that wakens me to this simple morning. I get down on my knees and thank God for a simple morning. There are the resolute punctuation marks of suffering children and of men and women–all viewable from above the earth. You see them in refugee camps, that glib first world term for lawless imprisonments. I get down on my knees and thank God for a simple morning. I weep for my nation’s foreign policies that sustain refugee camps and arm the thieves and war lords of (insert region here). I long to be a step ahead of the premises that American citizenship requires a de facto investment in worldwide and regional sufferings. I want our government to fight for a reduction in arms sales–an international treaty–like ending slavery–arms manufacturing and profiteering are in fact a system of slavery. I want to get down on my knees. I wake up this way. I wake up and want to move faster than the inhuman state–the nation states. This has always been my pet theme. The life of the mind is like the tracks of a bird that’s hard to trace. I’m wriggling in the dawn. I feel like weeping. My country is killing civilians all over the place. My nation is on the wrong wavelength. America follows the smuggler’s paths. I want to kiss the ground, the literal, marled, wet ground. I want the young writers of my nation to give up on so much irony. I want them to stand up between the spectral lines and wave their bloody shirts. I want to say too much. I want to get down on my knees. I want to stand on gallows hill and read a poem. And yes, I need to check myself to see that my favorable darkness is properly wrapped around the stone in my poetry sling. I want to weep. Who would have me as a friend? I imagine those of us who care about human rights; we’re riding on trains that enter the illuminated stations. And the stations are futuristic. When we climb from our trains the directional signs say: “Freedom this way” and the other sign points to a museum of human affairs. I get down on my knees and thank God for a simple morning. I am restless but not in despair.