Call Me a Fugitive

Call me a fugitive wanderer
and fraudulent beggar, if you will;
I don’t mind.

I have slept beneath the stars
with my head upon a stone.
And sleeping, perchance, did I dream?

Aye, a dream I had
and what a dream it was.

I dreamt I saw John Ball
alive and living well, preaching
despite the axes and knives
stabbed into his back by
agents of the John Birch Society.

I saw four horses eating noxious weeds.
I saw the peasant revolt successful.
I saw General Francisco Franco washing cars
in south Detroit.

In my dream I heard muttering mumblers
and murmuring mummers
chanting the socialist manifesto.

I saw a human skull
(it was my own)
in a field of blood.

I saw Red Rock Dam
and I was not afraid.