9 Second Montage of Revolution


there is a place in the teakettle
that takes my breath

a place where
big erotic bellies
shimmy shake
while watching

a 6 year old girl
get glaucoma for Christmas,
wrap it up in a mermaid's tail,

and swim.

i take the words:
the should haves
would haves
could haves,

slice them up
like the fine vienna sausages
we ate in '97
on a westbound trip to kermit
because five bucks
only bought the best
and we were in too much
of a rush to afford anything
but improv living.

i take the language
string syllables together
assemble hotheaded daisy chains
of exuberant excuses

hitch them up around the neck,
laced in your sweat

and yank.

because somewhere
lily is loves barbara
but won't say it

peachy keen thighs contemplate
dipping a monarch into wax
but won't admit it

the man down on main
slides his harmonica to the left
tilts his blues to the right
blows muck off newly purchased
salvation army threads

a 23 year old trucker steve earles it
like he's never steve earled it
on a 25 dollar alvarez,
imagines a '57 chevy
ablaze on  I-75.

because somewhere a son
buries his mother
pounds weak knees
tries not to buckle
as he assumes the role of pallbearer.

because somewhere in a kettle
a woman is steeping
and close to feeling
the scream.

vagabond
gypsy
pioneer
bleeder
mother
son
poet
visionary
blue-collar basement dweller
healer
vixen
shaman
dreamer
holy rolling,
speaking in tongues prophet :

it is here
it is now
it is for the taking.

Grab.

like the myriad of babies
plunked into Swift Creek
in the late sixties.

suck air
hold it in
exhale
and Breathe.


This is a 9 Second Montage of Revolution.
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We've been brewing in our sleep.