Results for the meantime – Poem

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.



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