“Happy Tax Day, Sappho!”
Is that all you have to say to me after all these years?
You come to my shrine of words and resistance to the man and tell me to pay taxes to the man?
Didn’t your momma teach you better than that?
Is your poetry flexible? Does it find its way into the heart, like microfibers, like an electrocardiogram? Oh, sorry, do you not like it when I use those big, Greek words?
Does your verse undo the curse? Do your songs change lives, or is the only thing plastic about you the surgery?
If I go to the Automat and put in a drachma, can I expect to get a better world to take with me? What can your money buy? Where is that Democracy you thought was a good idea…you know, the kind where men who own property and slaves and women decide how we all live and die?
I see the look in your eyes. You’re not having a tantrum, but a tantra. Your plurality manifests in the rainbow that is you. The iris in your eye is like the spectrum of possibility in a drop of liquid Will you come jump in the ocean with me, so we can crystallize our love in the clear water, with thousand of octopusses for witnesses?