dance in the street, move to the music
of democracy – our long national nightmare
is over, we’ve been chopped to pieces
by a man filled with grievances –
we’re hoping he fades away
locked in his gilded towers
removed from power
Get out and vote like your life depends on it! It just may, you say, as we shimmy and shake into dreadful October daze, lost in a maze of misinfo, throwing our weight behind causes, coalitions, fighting a collapsing system with credit cards –
– get that Amazon Prime delivery straight to your door, before November third, when the third rock from the sun glitters in the galaxy from light years away with bloody-red shouts heard in the coldness of the space race –
History is collective memory, and it’s always subject to correction.
It’s written by winners, whether daughters of despots or democrats. They build bronze statues that inform us of what happened, who’s calling the shots, who owns the space you occupy.
As the city convulses, an ex-mayor’s monument is fractured, beat to the ground. Our historical texts must be rewritten, newspaper editors must be removed, the revolution must be televised and live streamed to your social media feeds, and you must forget what you’ve learned because
there are new facts.
(Photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash)
When democracy died, I was reading Kafka –
gunshots blared + factions fought for ideals
they thought worth dying for –
TVs tuned to Washington +
the White House went dark,
troops marched + destroyed dissidents.