All the best songs are about fascism.
We have to be pretty when we scream.
Otherwise, they’ll notice & lock us up.
But if the chorus sings in unison,
if the drum appears on off-beats,
if the bassist wears a bowtie,
if the record appears on vinyl,
they’ll write us off as sentiment,
assume we are impotent as houseplants.

Even houseplants have fingers.
Even fingers pull triggers:
their ignorance their peril
when our chords go from noise
to lilt, they bob their heads.
They clap in spite of themselves.
You can’t kill butterflies once
they’ve hatched, no, we flutter,
carry pollen like infection.

All the best songs are about fascism.
We have to be silly when we scream.
Otherwise, they’ll notice & shrink away.
They’ve forgotten St. Joseph’s birthday
but they are fathers too: they bounced
babies on their knees, pretended
to let them fall, let them shatter.
Maybe one day they’ll remember that,
with us, too, they are pretending.