By John Kendall Hawkins
.
Time to start dusting off the musket balls
and reading Baudelaire (but, please, no Marx)
in the soft intermittence of firefly sparks
waiting for bonfires to begin, the calls
of bring it down (n'est ce pas?), mon lecteur,
and taking out the grids -- back to darkness,
unenlightened, what's next anyone's guess,
but no French help, Robespierre would just hector,
call us hypocrites. There's something missing.
The gregorian chants have died away,
the human soul of music, angels turned gray,
soft votive of self snuffed, silence hissing.
Do I hear a new paradigm drumming
Or the emptiness of unbecoming?
