The Paradigms of Our Darkest Moments

"The Paradigms of Our Darkest Moments" By Gabrielle Faust

Why can’t we talk anymore, Like we used to? In rough unhinged metaphors Stolen from the revolutionaries Of our parent’s immortalized era, Carbon imprints and improper paint, Fountain pen declarations That we would be the revolution! If only America woke from its Self-induced narcotic slumber Before it was too late…

We lay on wine-stained 80’s beige carpet, Surrounded by our frenzied creations, Our filthy preoccupations with Being artists above all else, And railed against injustice, Gloried at the sleeping consciousness Of the average mind, And, occasionally, bit our nails to the quick Listening to NPR on the way to work.

We were the revolution in its infancy, The gestation lapse like a cicada Between Segregation and Wall Street corruption, In decrepit little apartments, In bad parts of town, We slept like homeless gypsies Glittering in the madness and imperfections, Reflected in the fear in the passerby On the street each and every day.

In the beauty that brought lips close, And ideas closer, In the knowledge that there was no “now”, No perfection to our plan, So riddled with bullet holes, Hidden by ironic unicorn bandaids, And tattoos and piercings and body paint, From the circumstances of our allowed failures, The ones, for a moment, seemed Only fought with the invincible Everlasting twilight of poetry, Beneath boughs bent by the Highway of rats and holiday lights We were once the revolution.

In our own minds, Before we lost the impervious Exuberance of invincibility As we spoke through the feedback of Second hand amps, cigarette smoke, And burning asphalt, Cracked vinyl bar stools and neon, And parted ways with a wish and farewell, Never knowing if paths would cross again, But comforted in the melancholy faith That each individual branch of our Vision would find purchase Somewhere unexpected.

I wonder now if we were truly ready For the revolution we predicted? Were we hallucinating Nostradamuses? Is what we witness now with clear vision The forth coming of our prophecies? The golem takes its form from the clay We molded in our youths, Awaiting our commands, But what do we instruct it to do When we ourselves are still left In the paradigms of our darkest moments?