Typography and Tyranny

               No fame shines upon you
          bring me the head of a king
               and I will show you, shower you

     in all kinds of fortune truth
never handed out, not even
     when you invited him in, no doubt

               can unscrew this light I spew
          a new religion, no less true than
               conquest and expedition


               ‘the wise man neglects nothing which helps his destiny’


     once said Napoléon, so admit
I am he who can smash open every
     door blocking you, your mind

               just a tower of bricks needing
          rearrangement, babble transposed
               cannot tame it, the freedom

     mouths contain, this talent—so-called
so cold to those who cannot handle
     it, but in a moment you will


               feel how powerful a smash hit
          can be, no rehearsal necessary,
               just service staff decked out in

     harlequin cheques of zeroes
running on to infinity, milling about
     summoned in when we need to

               overcome mortality, even heroes
          bleed out unless marble encases
               us, statuesque royalty whose


     heavenly bodies constellations
take on, taking our virginity as a penalty
     for leading gods on, casting out

               unclean spirits and dirty bombs
          poets tyrannical and terroristic
               performing panic, lyrics of songs

     unsafe because having something
to say lays a charge militant words charge
     on, marching toward change when


               changing systems and selves is not
          what editors and executives and
               legislators want, versifiers put

     so much investment into slots
carved for programming cooked up
     for idiots and for zealots, not

               fellow liberators seeking after
          riotous thoughts, but starting fires
               is what makes ours the best offer


     imagine having to pay for what you say
with your safety, armored motorcades
     a reality, no vanity in having to pray

               you make it home at the end of the day
          in a war zone, poems considered weapons
               by clerics and other blind men whose sway

     undermines liberty, since organized religion
is the greatest crime, its victims innocent
     beings condemned by convictions


               some ancient masochists imagined
          would flog them into contentment
               fashioning heresy into government

     well, I will not let shame shit on you
no, skill will lift you out of the backlot
     bottomless pit the news has you

               wishing wasn’t, but truly, it isn’t
          art direction, scripting, and lighting
               cannot silence the defiant, especially


     since making things up is our style
no one can touch magicians for
     conjuring revelation, no mock trial

               can deny our inheritance, our miles
          of shared heritage no casting couch
               can corrupt, our patience no violence

     can crush, since the time has come
for us to speak up and help ourselves
     reach our destiny, to become somebodies.