The revolution will begin at home:
I will draw moustaches and horns
on the ancestral faces in the photo albums,
translate my waltz memories
into breakdance routines
for the skeletons in the closets.
I must listen to myself,
gather my input,
conduct a needs survey,
form a one-man focus group,
appoint me as facilitator;
and if it doesn’t work out,
I must let me go,
no severance package,
no staff farewell party,
and carry on by myself—
demand more relevance, transparency, accountability—
and if I don’t cooperate,
but instead stonewall, co-opt, buy time,
then I need to occupy myself,
set up a tent on my porch,
ladle out communal soup,
wiggle my fingers in consensus with persons unknown,
instigate civil disobedience,
chant, wave placards in my face,
grin belligerently as I’m taken down
by the usual father-figure policeman,
cuffed and locked in the paddy wagon,
placed once again in the familiar solitary confinement.
I will scratch the number of days served
into the cell walls,
stage a hunger strike,
dig a tunnel out past the fences,
emerge in disguise,
work my way to Mexico,
bathe in the warm ocean water,
buy tequila for everyone in my adopted village,
dance stately tangos with high-cheeked grandmothers in Mayan ruins,
until the revolution is terminated
when I drop dead climbing the temple steps,
and I am reincarnated as myself,
a Pancho Villa look-alike,
the real me, for now,
until the next revolution.
Monday, March 2, 2015
I wear red when I go visit him
Jesus-cripsies, I never used to wear red.
When we met I was high as a red kite at sunset, I must have been quite a fucking sweaty, muddy, vibrating sight of a kite, because looking through my huge pupils I caught him looking at me. 5 am and I had never felt so alive. (Thank all possible gods for acid.)
He had red on his hat.
I was wearing red when we met, and he wears red, so I wear red when I go visit him.
Red doesn’t promise it’s viewer much (unlike blue, or green). Red Merely announces itself.
but I wear red when I go visit him,
Merely announcing myself.
Red like Paul Maul 25 pack.
Red like the handkerchief perfectly folded and calculated to hang out of his back pocket just the right way. It’s crumpled by evening, eventually cast on top of faded and worn books with red covers beside his bed when he passes out, red numbers on an alarm clock proclaiming 5 am.
The plan B package is always blue, by the way,
and is the perfect size to be hidden by an unfolded handkerchief when friends announce themselves unexpectedly.
Red like the roses on the table this Valentines day. The table he was fucking serving. Handkerchief hanging out of pocket.
Red like the fucking short dress I was wearing while I watched him serve a table with red roses on valentine’s day.
I hung back, waiting for his friends to confirm that he was trapped there, we left, got into a old red car, opened our red cigarette packs, and my vodka bottle with a red label, and went to a show. We dropped acid. I saw him next, saw him soberish, and I saw him last the night they dropped me off at the greyhound. I wore blue, had a black pack of cigarettes, we didn’t kiss goodbye, maybe we would have if we hadn’t been in a car full of people, I doubt it. He gave me this fucking look when I was almost at the doors, and he yelled something. I can still feel it reverberating somewhere red in my chest. It was not I love you, but now I seem to wear red most days.
--Sophia Bernadette Kelly