complicit

i want to do something

about all this.

i want to be a part of the change

that needs to happen.

i want to walk away from my job,

as much as i love it,

and devote my life to

doing something

about all this.

i want to sleep on the ground

in washington.

i want to wake up next to you,

pour you a cup of coffee,

then hold your hand

and march.

i want to stand there,

proud.

not saying a word.

holding my fist in the air.

not leaving when they

tell me to.

i want them to kick my ass

because i wouldn’t listen.

because i was doing something

about all this.

i want to share a tent with

strangers.

i want to meet all the ones

like me.

normal people

who want to do something

about all this.

i want to stand with millions

on the capitol steps.

i want to never leave until

something has been done

about all this.

months and months like that.

living like slobs, and

wholly indecent people.

 

but i can’t walk away

from this.

i have a job.

they provide insurance.

i’ve got student loans.

 

if our credit rating

gets trashed, we won’t

ever own a home.

and maybe a baby will

find us someday soon.

i’ll have to work.

plus,

our house is comfortable.

and it might be cold in

washington.

the strangers might

smell bad,

or steal,

or kill me.

when i’m doing something

about all that.

 

i can’t risk it.

tonight i’m going to

eat at a real cool spot.

it’s a trendy banh-mi place

with green-haired cashiers.

i’m not afraid of them

because they’re kindly

taking my money.

 

we get along as we

share a moment

in exchange for getting

what we each want.

 

i will keep reading the news,

though.

hopefully someone does something

about all this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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where you’ll find me

you might need to pick my dead body up off the ground while the supporters cheer and the protestors wail and their guns pour smoke out the barrels.

you might need to bail me out when i have welts on my head and dried blood in my hair and in a trail down my nose.

you might need to drive to washington dc to pick me up after the march has concluded and nothing has been changed but it happened and we didn’t let it die.

you might need to get me from the hospital with spray paint on my hands and nightstick bruises all over my chest, welts on my black eyes and two less teeth in my gums.

you might need to follow me from the office of the trucking company where i slashed their tires and they’ve called the cops and aren’t letting me off easy and are calling me terrorist.

you might have to pull me out from under the tires of the paddywagon and undo the handcuffs i locked to people on both my sides.

you might need to wash oil from my eyes and nostrils and earlobes and from my tongue because you found me drowning in the spill.

you might need to bring me food because we all gave it to all the starving people who were somehow worse off than us.

you might need to watch me get torn to pieces by the mob because you knew i would never join them.