as I wait for the dawn
I’ll probably write a poem.
probably, this one.
and tomorrow at dawn, I’ll write another one.
chase my fingers as they chase my broken mind as it chases broken minds
as they slide…
all of it
drips piece by piece
and becomes the noise,
before the revolution comes
after the revolution goes
the silence, when everything is done.
when everything falls in place
people, words, memories…
and the thoughts that usually squirm inside out of everyone’s heads
cease to be, at that point,
right then! the idea of what we could become
dies with the human that is we.
plants, life platoons holding hands
without a trace of diversity,
bag in arms, no arms,
armed with singular ideology
jumping from one to three to one thousand and three–
to become One again.
ants, holding in their hands their imaginary heads.