OK, I'm going to start with a poem called My Revolution.
And it is about the things that we need to tend even
when they're difficult.
My revolution eats arsenic,
Chews lead grapes,
Makes handprints in cheap green paint,
Makes spit bubbles,
Pulls off her diaper,
Negates.
My revolution tells me to stop singing,
Start screaming,
Calls for me and kicks and bites.
My revolution wakes in the middle of the night,
Cold in her piss,
Twist tied by blankets we offered in love, in resistance.
My revolution would kill us in the middle of the night.
When she cannot legitimize.
When she shreds vocabulary, mythology.
When she will not tolerate our singing, my lullaby.
My revolution does not recognize me,
Explores new syntax,
Names her parts.
Shames me because of my shame of mine.
Demands I name everyone in the house.
My revolution spits out cereal,
Spits out arsenic,
Implicates me with spit.
My revolution refuses to believe she will be cured by honey,
or vinegar, or elderberry,
Has no faith that we can get off the grid.
Has no currency but hunger and need.
And her eyes, oh, the eyes of my revolution and their fuckery.
My revolution burns like a city under siege.
Tears like a rocket through the cold swirl of galaxy.
Through the cold calculation of capital.
My revolution sets flame to every prison caged inside of me.