Don’t talk to me about things you understand
anything less is a lack of imagination
anything more is self-conceit.
Silence erupted on public spaces

Democracies crumbled
church towers, temples and minarets tilted leftward, crosses and symbols dangled
children lost their nighttime stories

Humans tasted freedom with bitter aftertaste
understanding became underrated
rating became irrational
merit meant even less: understanding swallowed

The erudite felt oppressed with their tridents made of words, words that lacked understanding beaconed as
the mean, beaded with speechlessness

even though never experienced,
it is a happiest moment in memory,
words eaten in clarity of acid subtext
destroying the clean surfaces of white confabulation

people becoming erudite, in silence
people understood, when unheard
people dehumanized, in enlightenment
passing off learning, before speaking

Their facility with understanding:
hesitant, discrete and halting,
disassociated with their taste for life
remaining meek, submissive words

leaving numbers as plots graphed for truth
startling moments of tenderness
leaving immigrating meaning inwardly:
the more we knew the quieter we became

—animasuri’22

Perverted note-taking of Ma, Ling. (July 4, 2022). “Peking Duck.” Online: The New Yorker. Fiction July 11 & 18, 2022 Issue. Thank you Dr.WSA for pointing out.

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