I remember the book came to me in first year.
The Diaries themselves- a gateway into
Zapatista’s head,
the Grand Kahn was revealed.
but it wasn’t some quick religious slice
I escaped over time, through nine inch nails
and a Buckley wail.
Walking home from jobs with your feet hurt.
Writing until they’d all fallen asleep.
Reading Subcommandante Marcos
for the first time was much like hearing Bl3nd last year.
Seeing him place his figurine-ready self, engineered out of a van somewhere
or holed up in some seedy spot for weeks, using the still to provide
the photo.
What is it about the person who rides so high they lose it
and the people out their in the middle of the jungle or
the turntabilist oasis, that takes them all and binds them?
Well baby,
it aint fucking Revolution,
if you can’t dance to it.
And you have to be half-crazy
to be Zapata’s Sun,
and coke-cay-ayna
is a crazy motherfuckingdrug.
Let’s do this.
