Things are moving along.
Hacktivists and graffiti musicians and magic wordsmiths,
the comic tradition still lets some jesters have influence.
There is still some room out in the backyard for a garden,
the bad boys have learned to read more than Jim Morrison.
I’m glad I grew up selfish and broken and unable to speak.
Gave me practice for when the drawbridge came down,
a chance to think things through, over and over again,
with and without the ego and that other shadow, rehearsing.
To do more than learn to preach, you have to listen to many,
if not most importantly, peer into your private self,
liberating and looting every limb and every single shelf.
Presenting your treasures to all your early audiences;
your family and later, withdrawn, to your sacred self.
Things have moved along quite a bit again since then,
with super brands of eXistenz and squads of night killers,
and reclaimed space, and violently re-stated demands.
It would almost be sinister if half of us weren’t farmers,
the other half engineers, doctors, and English professors.
The steampunk anarchist is just the action figure after all.
The people are the people, diversely wide, greatly stretched
their purpose not fully found so impossible to be pressed or,
set against their master-narrator’s caustic, embryonic chest,
not some monetary S, but a great and solid rebel’s fist.
Because that’s what every human in greatness is.
And that’s always been the truth of this here protest.
David is always David; Eve is always Gaia and every young mind
has a new kind of poem, cure or tool, sewn into their genetic sleeve.
We’re always going to take the holders of unkempt land rights to task.
We’re always going to brace in local-ness when pressured.
A million little gardens, a million tending, tended, hands.
A million then standing, clenching them again.
Things keep going this way, we might just have a chance.