Untitled

The great cleveland martyr of the
.22 caliber third eye once
observed
"people used to be afraid of poets
now they don't listen anymore"
and
i
some 48 years later read
that quote and look to some
fabled heaven in
a kind of ritualistic
sympathy
or is it empathy
or is it some word i have yet
to create
because thats what i want
to create words
that will confuse or frighten
and enlighten
known
or unknown
i want to stand on my porch
with a load
of buckshot pointed
at bourgeoisie provincials
carrying pitchforks
and a red
white and blue
noose for my commie
red
ne
ck
ready to execute me
for mind crimes against
the state
of nationalist apathy
and market square beauty
sleep
with a side of extra obstinance
i want poetry to hijack the
dead hum of "reality"
i want people
protesting the loss of daydreams
and the uneducation of our souls
not undeserved
positions of true fantasy
i want to make people afraid
of the things they should be
like the one
lone
voice
crying out in a quiet
invocation of rage at
the impassive noise-sin
of his people
i want to ring the dinner bell
for a naked lunch
where we truly see whats
at the end of everybodys
forks
so then we will know that the feasts
promised
are poisoned