The Bullet (poem)

Notes:

This poem was written in July 2020 and inspired by the HBO miniseries “Chernobyl”. Like the show it has five distinct sections, though the references are not, by any means, confined to Soviet Russia or nuclear power plants. I’d like to think of it as a reflection of all socialistic societies in the modern world, the mistakes they’ve made, and the status quo they have paved. 

The first and last section are intentionally untitled. Only they contain references to the show.

The word “bullet” is used many times throughout the show, mainly for three reasons. One, as a metaphor for the uranium radiation that Dr. Legasov used to explain the disaster at a meeting. Two, as used by soldiers when they kill contaminated pets, and how one must put bullets in them “one after another” until they are dead, so as to not let them suffer. Lastly, as a straightforward symbol of murder. “Fly us directly over the reactor and believe me, by tomorrow morning, you will be begging for that bullet.” “I am not brave enough to take the bullet by myself.” “They will give you the bullet, and take everything.” 

All three of these meanings convey death. My greatest wish is for all to read this, not to be scared, but to see and recognize. It is painful getting struck by the bullet but even more so being used as one. At the end of the day, life involves living. We must guard each other’s legacy, stories, and experiences. We must reform on what is alive, and understand that which has perished. We must construct protection from ashes, for if we do not the world we live in today will burn down, again, someday.

See the bullet. Understand the bullet. Despise not merely the bullet, but also the gun, the shooter, and the deliverer of the weapons.

It is a system of death.

I. 

“You’re one of us, Legasov.
Now, I can do anything I want with you,
But what I want the most is for you to know
That I know.
You’re not brave.
You’re not heroic.
You’re just a dying man
Who forgot himself.”

“I know who I am, and I know what I’ve done.
In a just world I would be shot for my lies
But not for this.
Not for the truth.”

“Scientists
And your idiot obsessions with reasons.
When that bullet hits your skull,
What will it matter why?”

II. The Forest

We are trees
With our numerous branches of thought,
With the natural desire to grow crooked
At every possible opportunity.
Orders & rules
Chop those sly branches off.
The soft growth 
Sprouting from our main trunk
That might
Distract, corrupt, or become difficult to manage-
Are often strangled in their cribs by the efficient system
That is our society.

So how does a tree know
If it is growing straight?
When it turns to look around,
The only types in the forest-
They are the same?
How can it tell?
Whether it is well?
It can’t, and that’s why
It is often suffocated with unknown bewilderment.

We do not let mere smog disturb our living, however.
At least we still have some sunshine, right?
How else could we have grown?
How else could we have grown this tall?
We comfort each other
And let the fog swirl around us-
The forest that is our home.

III. The Factory

A chain of command
Makes a good factory line.
You stay at your post
By your machine, with your crew
And do what you are designated to do.
It will be tolerable, of course
Not work too grueling to send you bawling
Nor pay too meager for you to scatter.
You get to work
And work, and work on
In a pleasant, cushiony mirage.

Chop, chop, chop up the trees!
Deftly but efficiently
Slice them into manageable pieces.

Cut, cut, cut the edges!
Punish the crooked trees
For being the way they are.
Remove the dangerous corners
And trim for aesthetics-
It’s an art, really.

Polish, polish, polish the sides!
Learn them the way of life.
Soak them in alcohol, lies and wealth
Then remind them it will be taken away if they don’t behave well.
Bend under your touch, mold against your hand
That is the way before the paper of sand
Is introduced, and even they
Must eventually succumb to the inevitable fate.

But for most wood
It doesn’t have to be that complicated.
Bullets are needed
For all shapes and sizes-
If anything, just to fill up the factory,
Keep the workers busy,
And the forest alive.
Nutrients are valuable, but
So is suffering!
Let them be who they are
And get discarded later down the line.
They contribute, too
To the great factory.

A chain of command
Makes a good factory.
The straightforward line of orders
Masses up the great power
Of the workers
And GETS THINGS DONE.
A chain of command
Makes a good factory, but
Not a laboratory,
Not a theater,
Not a classroom.
Not a restaurant, a hospital, a judicial court.
Not a people, and not a nation.
Not paradise, not hell either.

And so people work in factories.

IV. The Orders

We take orders.
We grow up taking orders.
We grow old, giving orders
While taking them all the same.
Why is it, why?
That it’s such a painful relief
Watching others refuse them 
For us?

“What are we delivering today?”
Asked the truck.
“Polished, round toys.”
The driver replied.

“But they are just the same as the bullets yesterday!”
The truck puzzled aloud.
“Well, they are toys.”
The driver replied.

The truck was silent
For he knew not to speak more.
The driver needed him for the job, 
But not more.
It stayed, obedient, 
Helped load itself up
Before out of thin air
An urgent question struck.

“But how- oh how- are bullets made from wood?”
“Well, you see, it simply is that way.”
The driver forgets to keep up the pretense
Of bullets being toys-
And says, matter-of-factly.

“You cannot make bullets from wood?”
The truck resisted.
The cloud of confusion
Swirled in front of its headlights.
The driver shifted gears
And stepped on the accelerator-
Together they set off
To deliver the orders.

“Why, of course you can. 
Very deadly bullets too!”
“So you’re meaning to tell me,”
The truck suddenly realizes,
“That we’ve been using wood
To make our bullets
This whole time?”

The driver swears once
And farts loudly on his seat.
Know your place, the fart said,
Before you make you take my shit.
The truck has dealt with this before-
It has long learned to hold its breath.
In doing so, it became silent.

The truck shed a silent tear for the trees
For he had known them once
For he had befriended them once
For he had been them, once-
Before he was made into a truck.

Anything can be made from wood, 
That was the way things were.
Wood is steel.
Wood is plastic and rubber,
Wood is stealaluminumcopperglasswood.
The truck learned this
From the driver.
And that was the way things were-
For everyone, even the trees,
Accepted that.

… 

Escape while you are still a tree.
For if you stay,
And wait for better days-
You’ll be chopped up,
Packed & delivered.
And even if you don’t,
Your seeds…
You see, there is no safety
In such a useful forest.

V.

I have become contaminated
With the air of justice.
It has contaminated every cell in my body
And held me hostage-
Body and soul-
To something called
“Universal truths”.

Love your enemy, 
This air says.
Right your wrongs,
The air says.
Understand the world,
The air says.

And so
My hair falls
Quietly
On the words that I read.
I am dying, I know.
As soon as I became exposed to it,
I was on the path to my grave.
But aren’t we all, though?
Are we not all?
On the flowered road to death?
On the highway to hell?
Those, who are less contaminated than I am
Who are not contaminated, for they are far away
Are they not doomed to die someday, as well?

I bow my head,
Humbled by the power of this air.
I have grown to admire its power
And relish it’s abilities.
But love, no.
I can never love justice.

For it pains you so.
Oh, it pains you so
To have it in your body
Shredding the things you used to know
Apart.
Why is it so slow to act?
Where is it, when I have gotten a taste and now seek a release?
Oh, if there is a God, tell me,
Why do you let such a thing exist?

Men are nothing, 
Nothing,
In the face of nature.
Societies have no way,
No way,
In the exposure of justice.

And so it must be hushed up!
Kept safe, 
Sealed with a bullet
No, many bullets-
Aimed just right.
But as long as it exists-
As long as it is there!
There can be no going back now.

The probability 
Of an explosion 
Someday.
In my great, socialist home country
Is imminent.

The bullet command obedience.
And threatens death.
But, I 
I choose to celebrate life.

---

jESSE