Last night, an impromptu society was created.
to be deliberate
and write together and write
4 of us.
we gave ourselves an assignment. 30 minutes to write about personal revolution. Then we have to read our brainflowspilling to one another. Here is what we wrote:
a cup filled not just with quarters
the chip-toothed smile and unkempt beard
of the forgotten romanticism found in
the death-breath words of a scot-stained
street corner half-drunk half-prophet
the opposite of your binary bile:
ones and zeroes that murder tangible tangibility
destroy rebuild repeat
the mantra of a society solely concerned with cautionary procession
"cash, coin & modernization" give way to the following
for the past 6 months
I've toyed with the concept of
packing my bags
and moving to mid-nineteenth century
digital give way to analog
show me the hand-filled soil of your soul
not some god-dammed "about me" section
[and let me say that I hate that last line
because lately all I've been referring to in my writings is pop-culture]
but give me the hearts found
the squeaky floor of a church
there is weight in
and wanting to be immersed in the sights smells sounds and textures
involved in the creation of the book
i just saw, smelled, heard and felt
in the used book store
there's revolution in regression
my heart is an acetate
with one or two good plays
before it turns to shit
and side A
is almost over...
4 years now, and i won't go back.
not because I can't.
but because i'm afraid it's true.
that if i saw it for what it really is
i would be just as afraid as she is daily,
wondering "why am i here?"
And today, i can't admit that fear.
well...i could, but I wont.
Because every choice, decision, step I have made
has countered the hysteria that is always sitting safely
between my spleen and my dreams
I work against that fear
Ending wars, raising up revolutionaries
(what happens when revolutions get tired of themselves? Hysteria_
and sometimes that's what it feels like.
My voice taught itself to stop equipping
but that doesn't mean it doesn't when no one is listening
And that's the worst part of all.
What happens when we stop listening?
Nothing happens & no one moves.
[most days i wish for Rocking chairs and farmland & solitude what does that make me?]
By the day I stand from crawling novelty, I welcome the suited-salesmen into my crib.
By my dropping voice, I have amassed an empire of plastic, wires, and miniature idols of the future sale: tiny trucks, tiny guns, tiny women in felt clothes.
By my 16th year, I am the pin-up dream, the drooling banquet of consumption hunger in cunning control of the father figure mother told her mortgage holder, an added chain to the already imprisoned aging children thrown into a bag of wrinkles, running river liars, and comfort high-hedge whisperers.
By my waking years
the run-slows-to-walk-stop-and-look at my feet for the first time. I have already bought my weight in blood, the gentle stream slow sloping guided tour to lethal leisure mockingbird murder I gasp at the first light, the hinted ache 'this is not right' and find in my hand a hammer made of flesh and culture jammer and gas and fire and fear and ancient warnings hard to hear and climb the temple stairs to turn over tables and chairs
gas the drapes and light the base and promise promise make a promise to something.
Song bird sing Aubade
you say different
with what army? warning. through
a great unbalance
song bird sing . . .
for what the eyes have seen
a place in displacement
song bird sing
lost looking for place
to get lost
song bird sing
for now the cries.