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The Festival of Recovery from Past Error



Let us rut in the street and scream apocalypse.

Let us promote protest and punish first
those who have evaded punishment the longest.

Let us carry the poet, garlanded with flowers,
and dump him, dump her, without ceremony,
into the septic sea.

Let us make of all money
confetti,
and throw it at everyone we see.

Let us see no one.  Let everyone
see us, see us serious.

Let us forget what we have known and
remember what we've forgotten.

Let us bury the elderly upside
down in depleted coal mines.

Let the defiant taxis flee through the cities,
and let those who catch them
have free tacos and pad thai,
free frozen daiquiris in rainbow colors,
until the Wal-Marts are empty and
everyone has apologized to everyone else
and beaten themselves to a bloody pulp.

We, hobgoblins sipping adversity, play
with dice made from testicles and eyeballs,
dust blown by pursed lips from the marble slab
so that they might roll true.

The builders and the vandals together
can never know peace,
and since the vandals need the builders
but the builders don't need the vandals...
all dreams of peace must account for
the disappearance of the vandals.

The Earth is a palimpsest
which we are now tearing holes in
with the excessive, obsessive use
of our own eraser.

If only half the people were clever
and half the people were wise,
the world might break in a more beautiful way,
more like a geode than an egg.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.