napoleon

can’t you see

i am the big man

and this is the revolution

where is your pen

where are you

still on those things that do not matter

like the cancer of nothing growing inside you

in a delightful hug of wanting

you will never feel

for you forgot that i am feeling too

moving to the moment before a manatee collides with the air

shaped into a harpoon that will moor the beast

onto a wall under a father’s fastidious grin

and your sea-still eyes

caught as a little man

sending radio waves to life on other planets

who never wanted to listen anyways

because it’s happening it’s happening

tonight

all of it

none of it

whatever it is

if you come back

and spend the night with me

the big man

who cannot be broken by the less and less

of you in me in it in all again

circling

hawks

vultures

a spring song that

it is the revolution, isn’t it

there is no room for the dead

the living are crowded too

usually

into the desire of your heart

where no bird can perch

except the plastic kind barbed with permanent hope

and an outside that will be lost

on you

in you

for you

when you look inside

and see

nothing