Cincinnatus

This is my
urban decay: one

hand giving power
away, and the

other getting
back home and

getting on the
couch. In between

fighting and quietly
considering jumping off

the roof with a
bullet in my brain, I

consider a revolution
that will come

no matter how I
handle everything

else. My rebellion
will be private before

it is well-known in
books and movies. Our

version of harm
is another way to

detach our guide
wires before

being caught in the
net, gasps swirling

around us. If I
wanted to stay in

mid-air, I would
have, but I prefer

the net because it
looks good on my

résumé. I don’t
believe in promises

or change because
I know my relationship

to desperation
is growing like

cancer in our lust. I
want to find a

wire and pull it
through my hands and

hang from your ears
like my words

already do. Our
best moments were

hardly seconds across
an open room or

sleeping next to you
debating whether I

should kiss you
or not. Sonic space

is a new relative
of mine and I

keep it well hid. I
want to get back

to my land and
burn it so

nothing can grow. If
another crisis

comes about, don’t
tell me because I

don’t want to fix
it: it’s your

crisis now and I
won’t share it. The

bundle of sticks
in my hands

must be some sign that
I’m eager to fight but

I plan on ignoring
your calls and your

burning home. Welcome
to my self-

destruction: I want
to heat my eyes

until they burst
all over your self-

pity. I’m a
dictator whose relationship

to revolution has
become calcified. Thanks

for sending your most
spiteful sons-a-bitches:

you might as well
have sent Cromwell

over himself (his
corpse is American-

izing). You left the
door open and now

everyone sees entries
only as they want. I

need a mirror box for
the missing half of my

brain causing phantom
pain. If I were going to

slit my wrists, I’d use
your words. All places

look similar to me: the
sensation of losing

an arm. Becoming silent
requires tension

to already exist and
we only know it

in our chests, beating
endlessly, it seems. As

always, I’m waiting
for soft hands to

flay my skin, I just
don’t know where

they’d be coming
from or if they’d

take me anywhere
other than where

I want to be. There
is too much

to say to get it
in under any time

limits, so I’ll leave
my words for you in

a silver chandelier. Please
come back and show

us how it’s
done, old

man. I’d leave my
plow only for

glory, but you’re
better than

me. We’re
looking back

with our hands
out, grasping away

from any abyss
we’re aware of. I

want to inform you
that my idea of

consent is rather
strict: I need a

confirmation written in
blood, preferably not

yours. Bring your
riot to my front

door and I will
smoke you out. This

is a place to be
if you don’t want

to be anyone. Your
language negates

my existence, but I
don’t mind at all

right now. Our
desire cannot be

vicious enough. Your
body is wired to be

another set of receptors
for pain. All your switches

feel the same to me. Give
me money to workshop

your body. If we could
begin again, we’d

speak in smaller
words that go

somewhere else. The
direction of language

does not meet
directions of speech

and we’ve ended
up lost again in

pavements of stray
marks across pages

thrown out. At
night, we prefer

to talk heroic, concerned
with message versus

construction. We all could
use a flatter Earth tied

around our waists and
pulling us in close for

a kiss. I’ll save you
just this one time. Only

a certain kind of leader
would give up power

without having too. I am
not that kind. I wish

wind blew like this
every minute and my hands

could sit in my pockets
forever, never pulling

them out to tug
your sleeve. Pull my

socks off while
I’m sleeping and

strangle me with them
because I have no use

for a throat
anymore or air

to fill it. My favorite
scene in any movie

involves no words
or people, just cameras

panning fields or
abandoned factories. They

make me feel like
filling my hands

with fire before I
burn off my skin.

What was new
in previous days

has become re-gentrified
by your teeth rotting

away. If love is the
seventh wave, throw me

a cement block. My
relationship to Damocles

has become too heavy
to bear. We must adjust

our voice for a new way
of wearing down the

sides of our ears. I’m
too lost to tell you

I know anything
at all.

~~~~~

Amish Trivedi lives in Providence, RI and has an MFA from Brown’s Program in Literary Arts. Chapbooks include Museum of Vandals and The Breakers. His poems are in XCP, Mandorla and forthcoming on Omniverse.  AmishTrivedi.com is a rarely updated blog and website.