I Would Set Myself On Fire For You Twelve
12.1
No, well not patiently serenade and await the coming of
all that is ours for the taking. No come-hither cooing
from our lips escapes; no soft, whispered wherefore-
art-thou poetry. Well accent our lives! This trials so
desperate and dire. So hackneyed, held hardly together
by our hoarse screams heard only between whats sewn in
song: the stitching seems so severely immaterial, im
sure. But this is ours. Produced for our pleasure, not
yours. Not yours!
12.2
On these words of our evolving truth weve patterned our
lives, building bolt by bolt, laying floorboards and
walls with our sweat and our blood and our ten
blistered hands to uproot our old plans, to throw off
and leave. To leave, yes, we will leave this place for
a life not contrived by those that came before us
12.3
Our hour nears, just watch the way the hands
circumscribe the face. Then we will fly, we will flee
this thirteenth colony when thirteen bells ring.
12.4
This is our plea: to the blue-suspended cirrus stirred
by arrowheads of sparrows flight, make room for me. To
the tangles of the forests viral vacuoles knotted
lives, make room for me. To the horizon forever afoot,
the waning western light, make room for me. To the
oceans open bellies, black and swelling, starving,
rise! Make room for me!
