Tuesday, December 27, 2016

Post-revolutionary Poets

Post-revolutionary Poets

Gil Scott-Heron was right:
the revolution
will
not
be
televised.

It will be live-
Tweeted or Facebooked.
And the Times will write
pithy thought pieces
for online subscribers
to consume
while their cities burn. And I
will walk the streets
in the waning days...
well, not me per se for I
and my ilk will be killed,
strangled with the cords
of our Bose headphones
while listening
to the comic rantings
of other elites' podcasts.
But perhaps one poet will survive,
an immigrant of color no doubt,
to chronicle the aftermath.

There will be no country
to be an immigrant in or of;
the fatally flawed fantasy
that was ’murica
will be woke,
some new thing
in its place,
a burned out shell
from which to begin.

The bodies of the dead
will burn acrid and unmourned,
for didn't they deserve it?
Or die defending the true America,
no matter which side they were on?

This multi-faceted
intersectionality
we call identity,
merged and tangled,
woven
from the fraying fabric
of a million gagillion,
as my newly
dead young daughter
used to say
was how much
she loved me,
DNA
narratives.

But what of it,
I hear you opine?

True enough.

The dead
have gone before us
and their
volumes die just
as readily,
unread
by most.

Shakespeare too
will one day
be forgotten;
Beowulf already a bore.

But time is
slipping in this
verse and I
compose this
prophecy
on a train
with prying
eyes and asses
in my face, asses
on my shoulder,
once again
confronted
with the false
privacy of public spaces.

Or does my ego deceive me?
After all, they say
as you get older
you
realize
no one was
thinking of
you
in the first place.

But I am
thinking
of Other.

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