"It was a revolution in vain that revolutionized nothing."
               -- Fred McBagonluri, Dusk Recitals 

The warriors lacked sandals
so they killed the cobblers first,
littering the street with tongues.
Then the police and the sous chefs
and all the psychologists.
On the next night, two squads formed:
one for graffiti, one to hunt teachers
of history. The poets returned fire –
had there been a moon, more would have died.
In emptied offices, those who had known
thirst ran the water coolers through
and drank until their mouths were
washed clean. Journalists spoke
of a coup while farmers patched the bark
of apple trees. Later, the smell of goose fat
greeted the sun, and the sound of a mouth harp,
and the sight of a sleepwalking girl 
filling a canvas bag with stones.

David Vincenti is a father, husband, project manager, accordionist, engineer, and bowler whose poems have appeared in Edison Literary Review, Paterson Literary Review and Silk Road. His first chapbook, To The Ones Who Must Be Loved, was published in 2010. He curates the Spoken Word Series in Hoboken, NJ.

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