The Revolution

May 29, 2011 § 1 Comment

They have changed our standards of beauty
to include all the sharp and shiny things
that have populated our world.
Skyscrapers, jet planes, flying cars,
forests of telephone lines and electric posts.
They have 3D hologram ads
directed at the insecurities of robots.

To live longer, we have had batteries
implanted beneath our hearts,
and have mapped
the remote wildflowered hillsides
of our minds,
which now remember long, automated
pin codes and pass words,
and can instantly forget everything
about the ex-lovers
who have broken our hearts.

We can stand longer
working massive assembly lines,
and have quietly mastered the skill
of doing nothing over and over
again.

Indulgent speaking was banned
for not being a hard science,
and a machine was invented
to take all the warmth from our bodies
to melt the city’s frozen streets.

But there are dreams of heat
and pictures of trees
tacked up inside school lockers
and taped to the backs
of secret notebooks,
and on Sundays,
when the sun is allowed to shine,
there are rivers of gold
in my brown hair. (Run,
your fingers through them.)

It is midday, and we have just taken
our lunch capsules.
The lines are silent
and we have learned to breathe
without taking in air.

(We kiss with our eyes
open.)

The revolution begins
because of a broken window
at the far end of the factory,
and a young boy’s stash
of floral photographs beneath his bed.

We break everything beautiful
into smaller pieces
the way the poor broke their bread
when they still lived around here.

(I have crushed your hands
into the sands
of time.)

Nobody knows we have dynamites
beneath our feet,
that today is the birthday
of the end,
of the world.

You turn to me, and break
our loneliness into tinier things.
Girl with the dark eyes
and a secret love for trees
(we make love with our clothes on
the floor)
touch me, and think
as far back as you can.
Do you remember the smell
of wet leaves?

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