The Unraveling of a Young Revolutionary

As he masturbates
to the ominous
Red star hanging above the fireplace
the calming, deep tones of
a husky female voice

blast boldy from silver speakers.
I watch,
wishing my thighs
were his fingers, my pussy
his fist.
I watch through a haze of four-day-old contacts
and wet dreams.
I cannot believe I put up with this
revolutionary bullshit.
If you would only just kiss me
I would melt,
 no fall
shyly,
into the sweet tea honey smell of your chest and rest

for days
You promised me a revolution.
All I’m getting is a young,
Black artist
who writes pity poems.

An impotent promise

of spontaneous cunnilingus
and treasure hunts.
Yet I stay and watch
as square blocks with messages zip across a screen
and you text at the other end of the couch
I watch.

Not yet fully grown,

you are completely frustrating

and forever anxious, waiting
for more.
A person eating, no gnawing on homemade Black Beans and Fish,
but whose tongue remains numb
with his mother’s milk.

I watch, and wait patiently, lovingly
For caresses and gunshots.