This isn’t part of my soon-to-be-published poetry collection. In fact, it’s not even a new poem. I wrote this almost twenty years ago, and up until now, I didn’t think it was quite ready.

But it seems, unfortunately, befitting the times, so I’ve updated some of it to account for technology.

Here is the text:

Revolution (with apologies to Gil Scott Heron)

On this day of June 19, Two-thousand-you-name it,
the long-awaited
REVOLUTION!!!
comes to you live via the inter-tubes,
satellite,
shortwave,
and yes, carrier pigeon,
from Atlanta, GA!

There is a parade on the information superhighway
as the Panther struts out onto the cathode catwalk.
Its image is sliding into social media,
combusting,
and fluttering
into packets

“We here at See-and-End
promise freeze this cybernetic Simba
with liquid crystal eyes,
slice it into wafers,
and serve it up for communion.

So get your wafers at pick-a-season.revolution.anarchy.rebellion.S-and-E.something.something-else.bullshit.”

***

Under the light of the moon, the Panther stalks its prey.
The Ghettobird bub-bub-bubs over the water, night-eyes green.
The Panther’s bionic ears and night-vision scope-vision pick up movement in the treetops.
It creeps out of the forest to cool off for a swim in a pond.
They see each other there,
and they are shadows in a world of midnight blue
and omnipresent coordinates:
the silent Panther,
the Ghettobird bub-bub-bubbing over the water.

They have nothing to say.

They bow their heads and turn away.

***

Under the light of the sun,
the commentary locusts spill out of their concrete nests,
subway tunnels,
and fiberglass cocoons.

The Panther roars as it stalks its prey.

The locusts bite into its speeches.
Death is not quick;

the commentaries gnaw out its throat.

The information jackals lick their lips.
They split him
and split him
and split him
and split two
and split one,
scattering his pieces
on the concrete
in the summer sun.

They chew the panther with spiced commercials
for sport fluids
and the world’s most powerful malt liquor:
Flatline.

Live, via wave motion,
it is the REVOLUTION
you’ve all been waiting for!

The Ghettobird tilts its cockpit and flies away.

“I’m sorry. I have nothing to say.”

Everything is entertainment here,
and you are required by law to purchase tickets…

“I’m sorry. I am sorry.”

The opinion engineers guarantee a
heart-rending,
pulse-pounding,
hard-hitting,
thought-bashing,
rauchy,
racy, rowdy, rad,
sassy, sad,
slick, sappy,
smooth,
funky,
fresh,
phat,
fly, and
utterly
futile
box office smash!

“I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

The Grammys are being delivered by the busload.
The awards ceremony will take place in D.C.,
and everyone will pay.
And it will only take 15 minutes…yes, just 15 minutes
and it will all be over.

The DVD sales will more than make up for the damages and special effects.

S & E recommends everyone to sit back,
smile,
and shut their mouths…

“They’ll be right back after these messages,
Don’t touch that dial.

They will shoot you.”