Pudgy Indian

A young man strolls across the street
before the bus.
Cigarette hanging from his lips
back arched forward
shoulders hunched
to protect himself from the wind and rain.
The street lights
dance flickers across the waves
of water
on brick, concrete, and asphalt.
The dance on this stage,
the perfect ballet.
He pauses in the street
pulls his arms up,
strikes fire into life through his lighter
holds the flame
protected from wind and rain
by his arching body,
head properly turned.
Mission accomplished,
smoke pours from his mouth.
A few puffs
then his arms return to his sides.
In his right hand,
the burning ember.
Three more steps
and he's on the curb.
The street light turns green
and we continue through our world.
I can't help but think
that the young man
had seen that move before
and thought it was just the coolest thing.
That was a move
of a certain type of coolness
combined with timing,
creativity, ingenuity, improvisation.
A pattern.
A pattern relived.
An interesting pattern.
A cool pattern.
Something that can take many different forms.
Patterns
like riding the bus
seeing the same people
seeing different people
sleeping
waking
patterns patterns patterns patterns.
Four is a sacred number
a pattern.
Pattern.
We change patterns.
We drop patterns.
We enhance patterns.
Some we enjoy.
Some bring us pain.
We live in patterns.
Patterns can be changed.
Like the pattern to kill and destroy.
Like the pattern to rape.
Like the pattern to oppress others.
Like the pattern of "penis driven patriarchy."

Have you ever taken the time
to look at the tiniest of flowers?
Have you ever kneeled
on a sidewalk
to look into the world
of something you walk by
every day
and see the beauty
of a few
tiny blossoms.

Ever rub your hands on lavender
and rosemary
and savor the scents?
Ever look at their tiny purple blossoms?
Aren't they beautiful.

Rub lavender and rosemary
put your hands to your face
and inhale...
right there...
smell that...
feel it in your soul...

I smell a Revolution.