Revolution

And it is here that I realize
while reading Resistencia
that the source of all my rage is
fear
for this dying planet
fear that we will not spark
revolution before my
dying breath.

An old white man
asks me to write
about a Malthusian Myth
where poor mahogany hands
reach to the sky and beg
for even a sliver of the life
I am living.

A member would have saved $1.90
on this book at a business
that burns so beautifully
when we Molotov their windows.

I am no revolutionary, I
carve mangoes with
my fingers and use knives
for avocados I
make love under pine trees
and pine for what could be
if I traded luxurious rose quartz
for guns and marched.

I am afraid of giving up
even a sliver
of the life I am living
I am living up
to be less than revolutionary
I am living desperately to be
ordinary
not sure how to tolerate
the guilt that
I am not changing
anything.

The snow is piling up outside
my shitty apartment when
a red and white poster falls
and I do not pick it up.