Why don't the soldiers speak in poetry,
And politicians squabble for a space upon the stage?
Where are the earls who drown, then reappear
As Third Citizen, second from the left?
Where are the labyrinths of logic, where the bottomless wells of rage?
Where is the theater with no commercials?
Revenge shall be my final secret earthquake.
Assassination always is a tool your foe's friends can utilize.
Revenge shall be the spaces between my words,
And be the grin behind my grinning mask:
No martyrdom a garb the tyrant wears as his disguise!
No, my revenge will undermine his smirk.
And when the hippies take the street with banners
The powers will point their cameras toward the dirtiest of the haters,
But my revenge will not be televised.
My soliloquy only the audience will hear.
The powers will spin their cameras on the clouds & under the craters,
But my revenge is written in the void.
The Jack Cade of the Revolution howls,
The powers deploy their mirrors & holograms to tax his peace,
But I will write a silent five act play,
I will sustain by eating locally.
The powers will evoke historical dichotomies,
I rhyme with sacred words they have forgotten.
When did the understudy lose his place?
How could the scenery fall down when all the ruins looked real?
When did the tongue of rhetoric trip up?
Or was the director drunk when his wife slept?
And what immoral prankster changed the cardboard sword for steel?
Who turned the tinted water into wine?