It always does. And perhaps
a plutocrat won’t understand boiling
Blood until he is on the burner himself.
In which case, I’ll inquire, while the
Follicles of his ass crackle like a wick,
What percentage this is
Of the suffering he’s spurred.
Water boils faster with a lid--
Too, does blood when impotence
Rattles the lips, futility the heart.
the lid always blows when the heat don’t stop.
Elliot’s an old cook at the new restaurant downtown,
And on one occasion remembered this with
A five gallon pot brimming,
Bubbling with the skin
Of a few dozens cut potatoes--
And in that double take, I remember his
face seething almost as the pot.
Our voices are the tiny bubbles
In water before it boils, perhaps much smaller
Even, than that. It’s easy to miss one.
Yet, there’s that beautiful moment when they
all become bigger, fuller, faster--sensing
The urgency of what compels them, coalescing in
Air around us. When enough voices, enraged
And flagrant, fill the streets and the riot cops
Can’t stop us, then maybe they will ascend
Like the hymns of wicked cherubs,
Finally loosing the firmament.