WHICH FRENCH REVOLUTION
my first impulse
was to escape into the future.
i wanted facts.
then i wanted to text everyone:
“rise up and destroy the state. noon tomorrow.”
my paranoia is mild right now.
I haven’t started preaching the
apocalypse on street corners.
a guy on a bench was talking with
no one visible beside him.
i wondered who he was talking with.
mental health/communication coordinate plane.
people who “know” “shit” “is true” bother me,
and here i am, a lifetime of institutional gaslighting
having stolen my ability to put stock in my perceptions!
are you immune to fast ones.
i feel on the verge of being in love
in a way that reaffirms (rather than destroys)
do you hear how lovely that sounds.
being alive has made the future
less a place of escape, more a garden
overgrown with poisonous look-alikes.
this didnt start how i wanted.
i wanted to talk about how surface sexual differentiation is pretty fucked.
my hair is getting “more femme” simply because i’m not cutting it.
this isn’t a poem anymore.
i wanted to remind everyone
of what the idiotic dramatizations
of the old west stage coach
hackney-taped to the glass in the lil
personal banker fish tank
are meant to remind us of thru a revisionist lens:
Banks Are Piles Of Money That Someone Knew Exactly What To Do With.
Banks Are The Generational Accrual Of Ever More Folks’ Debt.
John Pierpont Morgan sold rifles he knew* would
blow the thumbs off union soldiers.
he sold them at a 700% mark-up.
some of these thumbs became 10’s or 1000’s of credit accounts.
the fact that i’ve never thought of birth as the production of labor-force
for more than like 1 second before forgetting proves something.
millons of people dying of a disease can release the oppressed,
millions of people dying of a disease can open them up
to a near complete oppression.
saw that to get lots of millions of people
to work for less,
simply make a few million people
work for nothing.
invent qualifications for forced labor,
and the smaller windmills
will build themselves.
the scale is massive.
resistance builds itself, too.
tiny windmills turning in the opposite direction.
the international conspiracy to live in peace as equals,
making the everyday despots testy.
clique of tyrants bitching about the newly less poor dressing too much like them.
they say that shit’s upside down when it’s merely one micrometer closer to fair.
in 1348, the wool-workers persisted in their fuck you
after everybody else grabbed some concessions.
a farmer in a field hears someone speaking to her.
a drummer on a street corner hears someone speaking to him.
BURN YOUR THINGS.
DRAW YOUR SWORD.
John Brown tried to do business in that clean, beautiful,
cooperative way that people evoke when they defend capitalism,
but then wipe their asses with the minute they’re alone.
John Brown did the math and he figured it was totally worth it
to try for the European market.
like, it was cheaper to go to England and sell wool there
than get fucked over by the local brokers around the corner.
we have to learn how we want to live, everything about it, so we can do it,
while at the same time learning everything about how we don’t want to live,
how we are living,
so we can stop it.
back to germany. renewed hope in my ancestry,
the possibility that the resistance i carry is heretic movement genetics.
well then shouldn’t i reproduce??
im curious: how destroyed
would you say your sensors are?
i’m a little in love with my friend. he asked:
“why do you love me so many years late?” i responded:
“i don’t know, because i’m still becoming a person.”
and then i got directly into bed, high on a dose of edibles,
with fantastical sexual images totally eating my head.