In a dream I am watching cable news.
The reporter says, A poet wrote more
than Shakespeare but we didn’t
call it revolution. Most poets write
better than Shakespeare
but they aren’t dead
and I wake and laugh
because poetry would never be
on television, butt implants
too smashed against the glass,
all eyes on the dance floor
high on molly, all mouths laughing
at the newest-trending challenge; men
seeing how many tampons they can fit
into their mouths before they’re paid less.
I have seen enough white people screaming
that I never want to scream again,
but silently isn’t how animals
demand self-defense. An article says
Poetry isn’t dead and I wonder
how much poetry paid them to write that.
A worker bee tells his mother
he wants to be an artist
and loses his college fund.
The hive mind playing internet chess
hasn’t decided on my move yet,
so I’m waiting in the honeyed catacombs
of everything that could be something
if only someone cared.
“Hive Mind” is a poem I wrote in 2019. It was published in Local Nomad, which you can read online.