We Were the World – David Lohrey

March 8, 2026

Shelter in place: this is the advice one needs. 
After a life of turmoil and defeat,
it’s best to stay indoors. Hide. Place your head
between your knees. They’ve been telling
us this for years, but I never listened.
I was too busy trying to take over.

Genghis Khan with a phone I was called; now,
all I wish is to get along. I just want to be free.
Don’t involve me. I’d just as well not come, thanks.
I’m content to stay, lay back, kick it. Let the world go by,
along with the riff raff. My God, what a sight. My mother
was right not to let me play with the neighbors.

The sorriness of human existence is no topic for poetry. 
Yet it is about this that most poetry is written. The lost and the lame.
Puppy love. Longing. Despair. Girls write about the right to fight. 
Boys, of universal impotence, the search for meaning. Victor Frankl,
where were you? You’ve got Toni Morrison on one side and Kurt 
Vonnegut on the other.

Like setting a Mark Rothko to music versus the Sermon on the Mount. 
Holy shit. Toni Morrison is Jingle Bells and Vonnegut: something along
the lines of crashing waves. Propaganda vs White Noise: which do you
prefer? Both are therapy, not literature. Certainly not poetry. Mark tells us
to look. Toni says to feel. Feel sorry for her, feel sorry for the victims, feel
sorry for the human race, feel for African-Americans, feel sorry for oneself. 

Mark says to look at the clouds and tell yourself there is nothing there.
God has split. What happened to the innocence? We were kind; don’t let
them tell you otherwise. We were true blue. And sweet, I kid you not. 
We were John Wayne’s children. We were Frankenstein’s playmates. 
We made cakes with our mothers. We sipped grandma’s elderberry wine,
and I’ll tell you this: we never took the Lord’s name in vain.

We hated our gym teacher, but we never called him a motherfucker.
It never crossed our minds. I can remember the first day that word
was introduced to the American people, the very first day it was
used in public. We said golly, gosh or darn, not shit. We said we were
sorry and bent over to bare our bottoms. We took our punishment
like a man. We didn’t sue. We didn’t curse. We never pursed our lips.

The bubble gum machines are empty. The Chinese are plagiarizing 
the fortunes they place in their cookies. It’s a racket. Our fortunes 
were written years ago, by a Jew who lived down the street from 
Lenny Bruce, who applied for the job, but got picked up by Hollywood. 
Our fortunes could have been funnier. Now they are passing out women’s 
underwear for men to wear. Panties are the answer.

Instead of fighting, women will give birth in the midst of battle. 
In the next war, there will be no fighting, just dying. Pregnant males 
and females will lie together along with the newborn. This is equality.
Yes, it is a matter of the eternal return. Back to nature, back to work. 
It will take a thousand years to bury the dead. The new policy was put 
into practice under Obama when he threw Osama’s body overboard. 

An excellent idea. The sea will be flooded with body bags. Sharks will 
become spoiled by the taste of human flesh. We have to hide. The
news reporter announced that all the world’s troubles could be traced 
back to us, yes, he means, you and me. The social justice warriors,
once known as scavengers and marauders, are on the hunt; they’ve been 
trained in name-calling, finger-pointing, and manufacturing nerve gas.

Our well-wishers have fled the country. They’re living in Canada with 
the Eskimo. They kill seal and eat caribou. We’ll have to keep the lights 
out. Our teacher has piled the chairs against the door. She’s asked 
if he would please let us live. He said, “Shut the fuck up.” He called 
our teacher a stupid cunt. He wants to make the world a better place. 
He’s fighting for justice. “We are the world now,” he says, “not you.”