Army of Individuals

Let’s say you’re at the front of the march crossing that soon to be historic bridge, the very front this time, not the outside looking in, or the active observer anymore, this time you’re at the dead fucking center, and there’s a sea of clubs, helmets, and high grade rifles ahead of you, so you pause and kneel before the inevitable flood, and you sit quietly seeking faith, but you aren’t like brother Malcolm or brother Martin with their quiet, ferocious candor guided by a sublime cause, you never have been and probably never will be, you don’t genuflect in temples anymore unless you count museums, but you don’t, so you’re wondering if you’ll ever make it to the mountain top without being high, but at this moment you need a voice in your head that isn’t your own, and you hear her, the one you’ve finally allowed to place her hands on the navel of your hair, the cusp of your heart, the soft crooner through the unending storm, and you feel like you can at last rise, even if there is still a fog that might just naturally be a part of the setting now, and it’s at this point when your feet are now at last beginning to move with the stream, that a ghost gnaws at your ankles beckoning you backwards, but you rudely shake it loose, and wonder about the calculation of your statements and their veracity but you can choose the truth you level at these nonexistent forms and you choose one of these, and it’s at this point the tanks move in behind the wave of visors and tear gas cannisters, and the troupe of youngsters standing at the sides move with the strokes that are atemporal and disconnected from a particular history, and their own ghosts gnaw at them, and my own sense of previously sensible pursuits is eroded into the notion that they are now sins, but then the ghosts circle into a crouch around me while I try to recoil, meanwhile this imperfect army of individuals readies to rectify wrongs that weren’t theirs and I prepare to do the same, dispelling seditary ghost fragments lodged in the gears of these machines, and then she places her other hand on my cheek to provide me with the weight to remind me that I can’t ever completely defy gravity, and reminds me that there is a lightness within reach when necessary, and there’s a new siren that calls future ghosts forward who throw vague apparitions like “identity” around, but we play hopscotch and dodgeball with all that, and the ocean of pigs stand with a stillness infused through status, and the alluring voice of history’s seductive sister Tyranny fills the void, but with the silence of the ghosts at our curtails, we refuse it.


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