George T. Mormann

Solemn Day of Las Vegas

las vegasOn days like today and the event which unfolded therein, I always think of that Catholic tradition of relegating certain days to each of the Saints. Feast days, I think they’re called. However, for the U.S., the days would be relegated to various shootings and tragedies. Keep up with this cycle of frequent mass casualties, and the calendar will be inundated with Days of Remembrance for a plethora of isolated incidents, workplace violence, ill conceived forms of vengeance en masse, and who-knows-what-else-or-what-next.

Daily candlelight vigils and moments of silence.

Church bells ringing in congruence with the moment of the first shot or explosion, which occurred a year, five years, a decade prior, everyday in perpetuity.

Debating the absurd fluidity of what a terrorist is.

It’s as if our only catharsis is to busy ourselves with mourning and to commemorate commemorate commemorate, like expressing some sort of collective guilt because not a single resolution is ever followed through or simply agreed upon. And it’s always too soon to talk about until the dawn of the next shooting.

The cycle then repeats itself.

Always Another Apocalypse

I completely forgot, until I got news of Kylie Jenner’s pregnancy,
that today is supposed to be the apocalypse.
I recall following the last apocalypse (not the Mayan one: that was a misinterpretation of their calendar and our own), and it was slated for 6pm Illinois Time, which may or may not be sunset in Jerusalem.
All the country’s pious radio stations abruptly quieted, as if to mimic
the sudden blackening of the Earth, like people wouldn’t feel tremors beneath their feet, or hear the screams of a million sinners, before they themselves perished.
No, the last apocalypse was treated like a flip of a switch in God’s cellar as he turned off the lights after retrieving his spare can opener.

Writer’s Block

Stepping into the void
of this old factory
I smell only the dust
that awakes to the clack of my heels.
The rust of use blankets the head
and keeps it warm throughout
a seemingly endless winter.
I am unable to imagine
the ghosts;
the wind has their breath.
It creeps through a checkerboard
of broken windows,
or mountains as I see them
from here,
on the production floor.


Originally posted September 17, 2012

Century of Progress

SNEED-081717-01.JPGGuard o’er the travertine
casting prospectus to sea

For the mariner,
his light

For a rower,
it’s shadow

For the pilot,
a token

From Antica it shall
again be pilfered

And again, promises
to harbor triumph

Comparable Meagerness

She grew up poor.
Her parents laid
off the nanny
when she learned
to feed herself.

For me, nothing
felt as rich as
a hot shower
a year’s wait.

This, she never
could understand
because water
always flowed
warm where she’s from.

Still, we endured
a similar
hunger, making
for sordid