Look at me
longing to flip tables,
pile and burn them
in front of temples
and banks. Look at me
dreaming.

Look at me 
with the words on my lips:
resist, disengage, revolt,
fight back. Look at me
pretending I’m an undeclared
war inside; look at me
dreaming

with whetstone
and oil and 
blade; look at me

pronouncing the old word,
“guerilla,” rolling it on
my lips as if I know
anything, anything at all
beyond wild dreams.

Look at me.

Maybe
the operative phrase here
is “look at me.”

Maybe
all I want is a stage and
a moment where I get to say
“pinch me, is this real 
or am I still dreaming
revolutionary dreams?” to
an audience and have them
come up on stage and pinch me
in lieu of taking a stab
or a bullet wound. We all get to
take part. 

My dreaming of 
righteous fury? That’s 

my honored part. You looking at me
as I do it? That’s

your glorious part.