Revolution

A Poem by Perdition

Where does it begin?

Is it in the rainy dark stones or hours of empty air, a homeless windmill wandering through the annexes of bride wild streets? Is it in the child’s green spigot? An idealist’s corpse scratching from underneath the marshy floorboards stained and stickled in smoky midnight drunk basement heads?

Is it a cruel backyard menopause after all the games have been played and the smell of cooked allegiance wafts into olfactory familiarizations burning us sick…sadder than before when we catch our tail of time. Our life sails staring sheep-eyed in wolver coats damp and polyglot in the loss of slow evening blue.

Is it the want for solicitation; wealth? Hard and disjointed dreams of cherry-wicked parlor maids floundering neath milk scented sheets. Nothing other than a shark’s death before sunrise? Is it a starving wilderness of shoes, white colic sinister branded, with rapid cellphones crackling over the black rubber industry of cruel schoolyards?

I’ve watched it splendor and wither in stage. Apple our minds with some struggle aside, like the snow of Appalachia or that last eye-haunting cry that must have rung out from Hoffman- was it Frustration? Is it in the smell of rosemary or the first slap of mint? Here we are not the condemned desperate, wild grey-handled criminals of thought, We are soldiers to Need, making our faces for the noise weary seeds of Nerium. Planting frozen rinds, afore natural sun directs. We hedge and we sizzle into every binaural and binary age.

Never at “It” do we ever come close.

We are mammoth flies hammering at summer’s pain

And why?

We cast this ship together, a naked crew setting free our heaven.

Shepherds spiraling toward universal aquatic end.

These perditions of language stare back like wretched refugees

Asking the depth of my curiosity, but Revolution knows what

I am …a cricket’s child in a fledgling’s nest,

Long idled and wearily webbed

My life sees only a stable locked by a pool handled latch.