rise of the anarchist

there's a boy with fire in his armpits,
keeps him standing upright
though psyche and genetics would have him crawling.
somehow he's found himself in the trenches
of an american apathy not his---
he rails and lashes out.

the incurable poor swarm at his feet.
he is their scarecrow.
a town crier in a bleak city,
his voice echoes off the white and silver.
he decries the government its failings,
says it has abandoned its people.



he calls himself an anarchist
and does all he can to fill the role,
hardly ever showering or changing his opinion.
nightly he hosts the myriad poor in his den
and reads to them by request
irritated always when they call for Corinthians.

he should navigate now to the denser waters
of academia that when his bark explodes
he might be lifted and saved by old salt.
but like a creature made immortal by Styx water
he is fearless before a future of certain demise---
he would gorge on poverty and homelessness if it came to him.

yet he must know the fire that keeps him lifted
has spread already by whispers and taken hearts hold.
when the time comes and he falls he will be caught.
and though kicking he shall be pulled out of the front,
given leave and furlough, then declared a king
who's knights are sound and rallying for charge.

there is one wish i have for this lad,
that god grant him a bout of schizo-mania
so he may yet survey the depth of his kingdom
and know the fathoms of madness, every character it becomes,
and feel for the first time a true smile
when he knows at last what sort of ruler he has been.