January 2008 / Volume Eight / Issue One
David Bates
Tomorrow’s Savage

I’m tired of practicing sincerity
in coffee houses and bars
of attempting witness
in rooms with
removable sunlight

(perhaps I will simply hone my wit
& prepare for a mid-level position
in the bumper sticker industry)

it’s become too easy to believe
that tomorrow’s savage will
always be carelessly reborn
just before the strange quickening–
convinced by the prolonged crescendo
of a perfect drum circle and
a barefooted babe with dread locks
who still peace-signs when she
says goodbye      

where are you tonight
find me

I want to be able to say
I was there, man

when the jester shakes his ring
100 keys
like a heavy metal tambourine
and the ambush

I want to say
I was there
when you reinvented madness