The Revolution Is In This Pantoum

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Poets lost their shovels
when body counts plateaued.
Skeletons stayed in closets.
Alone, tragedy went home.

When body counts plateaued,
pens stopped swallowing blood.
Alone, tragedy went home,
found a family of shaken babies.

Pens stopped swallowing blood
after the revolution got a job.
A family of shaken babies found
new ways to reach God.

After the revolution got a job,
the truth went cold turkey.
One new way to reach God,
auto-erotic asphyxiation.

The truth went cold turkey
at the poetry slam.
Auto-erotic asphyxiation:
never a good idea.

At the poetry slam,
a microphone begged for silence.
It's never a good idea
to sing against the choir.

A microphone begged for silence,
buckets of water.
Singing against the choir
does not get you laid.

Buckets of water
wished they had holes.
What doesn't get you laid?
Poems about ponies.

Pockets wished they had holes
to spill change on sidewalks
Poems about ponies
get euthanized by the audience.

Spilled change on sidewalks
only hurt the homeless.
The audience euthanized
common sense, this poem.

Only hurt the homeless
when skeletons stay in closets.
Common sense, this poem
shovel dirt onto poets.

About J. Bradley

J. Bradley's is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominated writer whose work has appeared in numerous literary journals including decomP, Hobart, and Prairie Schooner. He was the Interviews Editor of PANK, the Flash Fiction Editor of NAP, and the Web Editor of Monkeybicycle. He is the author of the poetry collection Dodging Traffic (Ampersand Books, 2009), the novella Bodies Made of Smoke (HOUSEFIRE, 2012), and the graphic poetry collection The Bones of Us (YesYes Books, 2014), illustrated by Adam Scott Mazer. He is the curator of the Central Florida reading series There Will Be Words and lives at View all posts by J. Bradley

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