write because it’s your civic duty,
because only dead fish travel
in the same direction the current
because breaking your hands
from their default clenched fist
doesn’t run in your family
or your bloodstream.
god forbid we get angry
at all the gunshot wounds,
metaphorical and otherwise.
you may find out
that your own good lungs
were always made for screaming,
that short tempers
too not grow longer
or on trees.
god forbid our voices
fill this space in nighttime,
demand attention directed toward
every soul in the gutter.
even the most hushed revolution
fills living rooms better than
tumbles out of mouth easier
than a drunken hymn.
there is just as much ink in your
pen as there is blood coursing through
the streets, so for fucks sake,