This queendom will be killer.
I rule in lycra cinched
say-it-wells. And you get a match tip
in the box. I’ll notice you from my helicopter
a swift intake like beatbox inhale
wind-turbine powered whine-catchers.
I want to catch fire, to burn with you.
How do you take back Oz
when you’ve never been to Kansas?
This is what I fear – if I step up, wouldn’t I
become the demon who haunts us now?
How do you lead from the heart?
Power is the crow’s call at noon,
a raw sound on the telephone wire
of Folsom and an unpaved alley.
It mandates a rebate, a translation
available upon request, as long
as you request in English.
These seven hills will hold us up
if/and when/ we remember:
What did we come here for?
What can we do in the meantime?
Listen: we can’t crit without
switch and bait, wading in
silly string and jello molds—
disapproval begs rehab.
Despair counts coins
and languages in which it can’t clink
glasses in cheer to an animate hope.
But there is something new.
Roll in. The ballots are neon
electric 140 characters. Care to join?
Common wealth has been far from common.
401; 501; blue jeans or bank lines?
What we have here isn’t working
I want to believe in you so much
that you begin to believe me.
This is not the end. I hear you—
Minimum six foot three for this ride.
Colorblock a brand name to paint
mailboxes and people into separation.
Negative ninety grand in decibels
for the volume on your karaoke.
Turn it up. I’m hopping on stage.
I’ve got you.