by kvennarad


the revolution will be streamed live,
wheels will burn and ghosts return,
the town will be jocked and jokers

shocked, heads will come up like
hellebore bracts as the last Dodge
rolls off the assembly line, the tail

of a silver train; all talked-out with
the risen sun, hipsters tricked out with
fake numbers on their wrists will sleeve

their way to the city in bumper-buses;
bells will ring; breakfast will be served
on the terrace as usual; maids who

dolled-up yesterday will dock their
good fortune and pound an alien maize
with the corn-ring piazzas for a pestle,

asking whose hand rocks the world,
while people on a walk-by will find a
way to make their own music; yet


the revolution will be streamed live
to those who have the appropriate
technology to receive it; street-kids

in Rio will wake and only feel the
aftershock, but it will be enough to
make them laugh, disguise themselves

in plumage, and sing in the tongues
of angels, though purists think to hear
arias as they parade the boulevards to

paint chirurgeon strips on signpoles;
beaded beanies will sell out; the avenues
will look strange but you’ll not know

why until later; people behind the wave
will see patterns in the water; new;
brooms; sweeping; clean; backlogged

gates and desks and locks and boards
and cards and marks and doors and
walkways will give merry way to


the revolution will be narrated, a day
later they’ll think to send someone
with a microphone to the scene, but

there’ll be no yellow tape and no
atmosphere, only daze in the strange
avenues (later, later!) where bosuns

link arms; you’ll be thinking “paradigm
shift” but the term will have redefined
itself; actual words will march; advance;

retreat; retrench; oh the coloured shirts
pushed back against breasts and arms
by the breeze, read meaning into the

curlicues, make dollarsigns empty,
cup hands, draw lots, make starts, build
bridges, birth children, make sure in

the blind times to come, sure as wheat,
plain daylight, crowsure the timestamped
revolution has thus been narrated

jupiterA retreat from the lyric, but not a retreat, more and advance in a different direction. ©Marie Marshall.