One of These Days the Revolution Will Not Be Televised
by Madlyne Pagtanac
You are the brain, baby
Fetus fruit that rots in the womb
Congealed in the pickling gelatin of ignorance
–Basket of maggots
My forehead sealed, vacuum packed
I can feel thoughts, thoughts of YOU
Drilling through, drilling deep burrows;
Separate compartments where you live
Comfortable with apathy, nestled like a couch potato
These spores which sprout upon my head
The antennae of a T.V. idiot
I am a garden fool that will not forget.
Forum Literary Magazine 