Jason Wilkinson


Or those imagined consequences
derived of such a harrowing prospect.

This is not about a truculent gallimaufry of feather-weight rebels
hell bent upon setting things right.

Itís not about all the more conventional philosophic mechanisms
which have failed at similar pursuits.

This is not another sleek advertisement
beckoning you and your family to an ĎIsland Paradiseí
beyond whose tourist areas a small battalion wouldnít feel safe.

Itís not about amending tax regulations or cutting back pension fund spending.

Itís not about what you or I, or anyone else on planet earth, would do for a square chocolate-coated bar of ice cream.

This is not about the day that your last functioning brain cell packed up and moved out

Or the rather odd variant of separation anxiety which ensued precipitately upon its departure.

Itís not about a Tea Party For Idiots.

Nor the institutions of demonstrably inferior repute
through which Conservative slander has found an audience.

This is not about how many disingenuous morons one is expected to transact life among
for the sake of remaining buoyant in a global economy.

Itís not about what you should do with your piss-pot inheritance of worthless bric-a-brac.

For the love of God
this is not about your mother in law!

Nor the mean frequency with which she has been known to disrupt the equilibrium o
your otherwise quiet abode.

This is not a loud wake-up call for all of the people whom would do themselves a greater turn should they ever choose to pay way more attention to their own lives.

This is not about the Ďwell-intentioned prankí that cost your uncle his right leg.

Donít worry, this is not about refining the American Healthcare System.

Itís not about the public school lunch program of the future, which will likely consist of
nothing beyond ill-tasting protein bars and bottled water.

Itís not about how many politicians will be disgraced by the time it is implemented.

This is not about a witch living on your sisterís block, who, for the sheer pleasure of
countenancing her neighbours, has made a flamboyant show of observing Christmas for
the past nine years.

Itís not about the untold number of household pets that went missing between that
development and the nearest Chinese takeout facility.

Itís not about the ethnic violence in Nigeria.
Or the virtual monocracy of Yemen.

This is not about the five hundred pound gorilla that some genius thought would make an
ideal pet.

This is not about a religious hierarchy that is more concerned with defending child
molesters to The New York Times than it is protecting children from abuse.

Itís not about an imaginary band of nomadic aliens whose invented history includes
manufacturing the first humans in a laboratory, and strip-mining our universe for gold.

Or how such dubious extraterrestrials have, according to an equally incredulous agent,
lately found themselves mired with intergalactic sanctions.

Itís not about the utterly barbaric fashion in which the most vulnerable members of
Civilization are often treated.

Or the collage of useless judiciaries whose despotic machinery refuses Justice to those
whom have suffered the worst.

Itís not about the first thing that you plan to do after reading this.

Nor the fact that most of your friends have not read a book for the better half of a decade.

This is not about how made disinterested jackasses are required to stop an oil spill.
Itís not a lucid editorial scrutinizing their largely ineffective practices.

This is not about placing blame.

Jason Alan Wilkinson is a writer living in New York.

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