The ancient satin tapestry
hangs ragged on a wall
Depicting scenes of chivalry
that no one can recall

And as the candles flicker out
and shadows disappear
There sits alone in darkened hall
a single Musketeer

He hears again from pits of Hell
a rising steady roar
Beelzebub appears anew
to pound the drums of war

So as in every age of man
with shield and with sword
He leaves his love, his land, his life
to go and fight the horde

And as with ages long ago
he shouts the battle cry
And it never does occur to him
to ask the ******* why

So he fights and kills
for Kings and Queens
who tally up the score
And he thinks by shedding
so much blood
he'll put an end to war

a fortunate photo
towhee up close
sentimental bird..
red eye warns
nature's wild
constricted point..
seeing here
what one sees
in restless tiger's
fearsome eye...

My skin is raw from the frequent scalding hot showers.
I want to scrub your fingerprints off my body.
I don’t want to smell of your deceivingly sweet nectar,
I don’t want to feel your lingering embrace any longer.

It is no use.
I know that if someone were to kiss my body,
They would taste the insincere plague of your tongue.
They would absorb your flimsy forevers,
And those tender kisses that were meant for only me.

It is no use.
I cannot forget.
It is impossible for me to peel off these imprints.
So instead I will cover them.
I want to tattoo the first time you kissed me all over my body.
I want to tattoo our beach trip on my thighs.
Our day at the amusement park on my feet.
That’s where the skin is thinnest.
Poke close to my fragile bones.
I want it to hurt as much as possible.
It needs to sting.

Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.

So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres    
that tomorrow never happened.

He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread