Interdiction Never Works Out Well

It’s been noted the purpose

Of story is to persuade

People, even in hatred,

You are holy. That seems kind,

But possibly too potent.

Do your stories persuade you

Or do your persuasions choose

Your stories? Maybe story

Is just the silver layer

Between the mirror’s wooden

Backing and the mirror’s glass,

Reflecting what you wish back

In realistic fashion—

This is you. Examine it.

That also seems too polite.

Story’s a window, a frame

That you look through, that captures

A wedge of the world you like,

Want to like, or someone means

You to like. Your favorite

Window only mirrors you

Depending on which side’s bright.

That seems incomplete, as well.

Are you whole environments

In which the stories compete,

Reflecting their tournament

Standings, rather than yourself?

Demography shapes stories,

Then, as geography shapes

Species. How much can be known

Of an island from its birds?

You’re not an island. You want

Something from stories—although

You want something from whiskeys,

Morphine, methamphetamines,

Nicotine, and sunshine, too,

And when things end up ugly,

We’re back to the old question,

Of what’s more inherently

Destructive, the chemical

Cocktail, the tale, the user,

Or the one who makes and sells?