if the old ones
knew what
we choose
to forget
they would not have left
us the reigns
to this
runaway
stage
show
coached and coaxed
slow
to confuse
the applause for
applesauce and mint juleps
to hear
the galactic gallup
of wanted men
as progress
and not
manifest
masturbation
the revolution
of crisis
is not
this lightning
but the thunder
coming
the drawn curtain
and warm bath
of inevitable
rain
if the old ones
knew what
we choose
to ignore
they would not have gifted
us this
present
moment
wrapped too
tight to
open
they would
have left us
the knife
