rumbleheart, i heard a rumor. i heard what happened today, i heard from a heard from a falling tree-bird that Trump trounced through the tumbled tundra today (it was important to hear and i heard it here first). i heard he’s bedazzled in glittering gold corpses and i heard today he said that he’d say what he said he’d say when he said nothing at all. i heard, i heard, she said, i heard. i hear the rumbling of something else, too – the hollowed shell of the sea, gurgling mermaid murmurs back through the mirror of the sun. i hear something else, too – the winged cry of my boy in the sand – singing carols to the crooning of the crabs. i hear another, and another. i hear things too. things more valuable than trumpeting tweets and teetering towers of tricks and treats. i hear things too – tiny and ringing – a frequency higher than the tongue of social media. i hear the breeze blowing chunks of cloud consciousness into my hair. i hear the silence of the stars still heaving. i hear the roots of the rooted-ones still resonant and resounding – reaching, reached; teaching, taught. i hear things too. things too tasteful for Trump to tout. i hear river songs. i hear hope. i hear bottomless beaches of people reaching our voices for melodies to sing. i hear people rattling the drums. i hear the drums rattling back against the horizon. i hear the Earth tucking in for the night. i hear women carrying cities on their backs. i hear minorities mounting high the momentous monuments of our own momentary history. i hear muslims praying perfectly; profoundly; presciently; perpetually. i hear gender-queer fluidity lapping like a shore, like a river, like an ocean. i hear the horizon widening. i hear people standing up, sitting down, taking no shit. i hear people speaking courage words. i hear a people rising. i hear a moonbeam cracking open its eyes. i hear a people awakening. i hear a surge of voices singing out in songs of sacred unity. i hear a chorus of creative hearts curling around the edges of a coronated, corrosive corruption. i hear disease being purged. i hear people rattling the drums. i hear the drums rattling back. i hear our bird-song-trills, rancidly beautiful and terrifyingly bright; resounding and rattling and resisting and raging higher than tiny tweets from the ground. tweets don’t fly, but birds do.
Powered by Revcontent