I fall through a galaxy of time

by the seat of my pants.

Previous incarnations

are wide-eyed, stuck

in a holographic dead end

of ancient history.

The horror of it all—

the dying and crying.

I wait for the next pogrom,,

a feral Bitch of Buchenwald,

goose-stepping blitzkriegs

that bloody the milk-blue sky.

I shake myself like a wet dog,

hoping I will awaken.

Its hard for me to be present

for my very own next breath.

I don’t hear the bobolink,

or see the ripples on the water.

Consumed by fear and worry,

I fail to notice the lushness

of the mimosa in full bloom.

Ever since Genghis Kahn,

we’ve been terrified by every

black raven that emerges.

Victims must mobilize

in the defiant color of NO!,

fight back like they did

in the French Underground.

We’re not motionless horses

trapped in someone else’s carousel.

When will we learn that every despot

is made of nothing more than

puffed-up papier-mache.