sun faded plaster on the hotel rooftop
surronded by mountains, Athens lies
within a bowl
the Parthenon is on strike tomorrow
the workers, not the building
i sip my juice
dying orange light gliding over the peaks
the masses kick up dust on the gravel streets
i wonder where they'll go
still having time to follow, i put down
the drink and grab my canvas bag
out the door
i told no one of my journey
a secret sojourn makes it feel
like freedom
on the bus ride in i saw an empty city
filled with eerie silence—car windows smashed
metro stops broken
trash lay everywhere (collectors
on strike) the air was
heavy
tonight did not feel heavy i followed the
crowd down the narrow streets and felt
only lightness
wrinkled fasces, hushed exictement, shifting ground
i was no longer just myself—i had
become the crowd
we funneled into a square, smooth stone, grey, sticky
with the air of a humid evening small bodies
packed tight
smoke poured out of the church incese filled
my vision, smell corwding out reality
do i enter?
my excitement built as the crowd made the choice
for me the inside was more beuaitufl than
i had hoped
gold gold gold! everything with gold trimming
mosiacs of every color and the crying out of
a people freed
it was only one night, of course a day of
police bottles and a night of celebration
as release
i was free the world streched on before me
as a woman prostrated herself in front of
the saint
never felt that way since the bubbling up of
possiblity only appears during a night of
collective liberation
i spent the next day eating rooster and
catching my glasses before they fell
off a bridge