You Are the Revolution You Dreamed Of

I’m grateful to Samantha for unknowingly giving this piece its title.

The best words will not be yours, but you will take them,
give form to the shape of them, in the same way that
your palm can give heat, and take, lingering on
a lover's breast.

You no longer need dream of acquiring a bullhorn,
then installing yourself in the midst of a bustling street,
and expiring frantically into indifferent crowds
woven strands of sound.


Every single thing you wanted has come true.
Every single thought you've had has made sense.
Every single mistake that you made has turned you
so supple, so slowly.


When your broken fingers let go the bluebird,
it won't fly, eat, or sing ’til its color turns gold.
Have you tried living with Intention? He's a slob:
you'll always find

dishes in the sink, underpants on the TV,
an I.O.U. in the fridge, a note on the windowsill.
And what do you see when you look at him?
And what does he see?


You cleanse your hands and your soul. You dress yourself
in black cloths, gather dry wood, build a pyre,
then burn it all at the appointed hour
and watch the fire.