Brownfields,
old factories:
this town has plenty,
like pockmarks.

I drive away from my house.
I won’t get out of the car. I just want to stare.
I want to imagine breaking in and beginning.
It wouldn’t take more than all my blood and treasure

to take an abandoned firehouse,
skin everything out, leave the pole.
Put a rebellion in the bays
where the trucks used to sit.

Charge anyone
who drives to see it,
but the walk-up traffic
gets in free.

Inspired,
clear at last,
I park the car in
a vacant lot.

Walking now with other
abandoned persons
who all walked away
from a house somewhere.

There’s
an ocean
in front of us,
a boat waiting. But

there’s so much to do
right here in our brownfields
that we don’t need to go
anywhere else.

Let’s all go back to bed
at once.  

Let’s not get up with an alarm
or with the sun.

Let’s stay in bed, alone or accompanied,
for a couple of days.

There will be time allotted for bathroom breaks
and trips to the fridge
but the only people allowed to be up and about
are the fomerly comatose
or otherwise ill.

Sex is not the point, but will no doubt
happen anyway
as it always does when forbidden
or when circumstances are
especially awkward.

Let’s make bed the new revolution
and protest against 
the status quo.
It’s been done before — witness John and Yoko —
can we get an amen?

Let’s prepare for a long time at rest
before we rise again.

Let’s put a bed under every roof
and a roof over every head.

Let’s put clean sheets on every bed,
just in case.

Let’s not argue over who is in which bed
and with whom.

Let’s go back to bed and not think too much
about not being in bed.

Let’s enjoy horizontal peace.