THE Problem

It’s not just that We/Man now engage in behaviors once associated with nervous young girls. Pouting over trivial inconveniences and jumping sky high at each shadow that suggests itself from the dark.

It’s not that…the dire problem at hand.

It’s not that we stomp or shed tears because everyone’s wrong and we’re misunderstood.
Not even how we cower and lack backbones apart from the ones we fashion from the approval of a mob.

In an age where men are shaving their bodies smooth and whispering gossip in falsetto voices.
While living in a society where you’re crazy or cruel for refusing to pretend that any of theses are marks of a sensually traditional Man.

As we become angry that others don’t like the unpleasant things they see from us.
While becoming angrier over the mere suggestion that others have a right to avoid unpleasant things for themselves.

It’s how high our noses are in the air.
When our heads should be dipped low in shame.. what the problem is.

How Man laughs and shrugs off others who have the nerve to expect a small measure of the very same understanding he begs and bullies for on a consistent basis.

How angry we become over the assumptions that are made about us based upon our actions…yet refuse to stop generating assumptions on everyone and everything based upon nothing other than our own imagination.

That is the problem.

This dire and this serious situation. Where we feel no shame over the sound of the lies coming out of our faces traveling to our very own ears. Where we barely shrug over how insane we truly must seem to one another.

The insanity of it all, this nasty problem…

We/Man finally having become the all consuming and selfish machine that we have become…blind to our own defects and determined to beat others half to death for failing to get rid of their own.

It’s more than a problem.
This is Humanity’s death sentence. That’s what this is.

As we smile our grotesque and manic grins.

Tightening  grips around each other’s throats. Greasy eyes darting  anxiously to and fro each time that  we step out of the door. As if someone was ready to pounce upon our own beloved necks.

Pissing our pants because we thought we heard a whisper.


But able to stroll and mosey  away from screams of pain or for help, with fingers jammed into our ears real tight.

Like little children.

Or primitive units out of some foggy prehistory.

Unfamiliar with a yet to be fashioned (currently forsaken) Golden Rule that was supposed to separate Us from the beasts in the first place.


photos by luismolinero

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