the anarchist poets are the children of our

generation. i wake up early in the mornings
to watch them perform on the streets. so
youthful and sick of playing hop-scotch, they
take stands and practice their tongues like
jump ropes. they sing their playground rhymes
out loud while learning dangerous words that
taste like Revolutions.

but-
even the invincibly young can scrape their
knees on ragged-pavement city-streets
and when they collapse and reach up their
hands for something that seems like comfort,
the taxi-cabs just fly by painted like hornets,
their red tail lights sting if you get too close.

maybe it's aggression that leads to the revolt
or a greater sort of hurt blooming from the
listless disconnections of window shoppers to the
beggar musicians with voices deeper than mines.

regardless, as the world spends and the debts grow and profit
exponentially and emotionally decreases, the poets draft
the ideal words to make rebellion beautiful, an army of 26
with over two hundred thousand possibilities.