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OC Sep 2018
No matter how I try, it’s tough
To give up on the notion
That I am at the hub, and things
Revolve me in predicted motion
Since evidence suggest that you
Are funneled through, per se,
My heliocentric point of view
To form the milky way

---

Time after time, it all comes down
To my unshaken, firm refusal
To dig the dust of my own past
And face my own accusal
My fetal limbs still probe and poke
The sheathing warm placenta
As if to perforate some stars
In skies of deep magenta
I’ve never felt so hugely-small
So focused and off-centered

---

I pleaded once, I begged you twice
A third time I implore
To stow your truth away from mine
If possible, in different drawers
Since neither of us knows the dose
That let us sleep at night

---

You
Simply do not
Understand
Just how much
I am
Right


---

I swear, I’m just a laborer
When all is said and done
Who drones on towers that adorn
The banks of Babylon
My breath is getting shallower
With each brick laid in place
My words like sweat evaporate
As I inch out to space
Without this nuisance of a tongue
This need to comprehend
I might have been a god like you
And we could make amends

---

When used alone, the reason fail
In quelling arguments
Like throwing stones into the sea
To form a continent
As reason is perspective prone
And tethered to a soul like strings
To bridge the gap, souls must align
To form the sturdy anchoring


---

Even if
Glued back to back
We both refrain from blinking
And even if
The world will turn
And we just let all sink in
And even if
A compass draws
Trajectories into conclusion
This revolution
Will sum up
to yield the same degree

Three hundred
Sixty
And a bit

Is all that we can see

---
Kilano Saddler Mar 2019
Revolution does not begin in silence,
but with whispers–
a steady rise in tempo,

a cacophony of intent, leading to anarchy.
She says I’m inciting chaos
and my coworkers shun me in aftermath

because I dared question a flaw– a fault–
a crack in the earth
where mountains rise and sidewalks tremble.

I’m inciting chaos– but it was just conversation,
the kind that signs declarations, constitutions
and drafts beget into militia standings–

because how dare I speak in private?
I notice discourse, and I follow,
and question designs built on theft,

braced upon effort to keep us docile.
My chaos
Pulses in my temple– but with accusal

I’ll graft it upon my knuckles, my
wrists, arms, and face.
I’ll be the hurricane they sought to quell–

the fire, the rage burning in hearts,
minds, and whispers. I’ll light
that match, and watch their worlds burn.

I can be that whisper.
I can be that chaos.

— The End —