The Average of Revolutions
is an era of fallacy
an error – no less,
of philanthropic tapestry.
And
though the curtains – drawn,
tied by titans, who tighten knots and bows –
close, I a curious foe
stay concerned for history’s historians, their litany of prose
fateful lisps of war – mistakes
faint, of tongue and ink painted
to sheets like scribes who scourge
a story bored already, born unnecessarily
into vexing texts, no more sung through
oral hymns, spiraling tunes, melodies, or
hung and flung about cultures, and moments,
Prolonged, waiting like birds, like
scavengers, over lapsing times.

Propose a clue, and clasp that word, that
factual statement, of the world, of the grasping cues
and the knowledge of all men
who are pawns – secretly, no surprise –
no lies – no misgivings, nor mis-tellings, None.
but truth here, historians, wordy little
writers, stuck with clues,
and tactless tasks to tell a story through the outcome
of that tired story, of that horror film of thumping
realization that
We ARE
the Average of Revolution.
A mean – no more,
no less, I mean, we are
simple things and simple places, and life and death
and all the men we’ll never know.