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

Looking up at me
It's more than I can handle
Show me what its like
To be tasted by an angel

snowflakes burn more than the dog leash,
you told me to hold back in nam,
and if you think,
that a troll is a unicorn,
then, I'm sorry, my friend,
you've never seen a unicorn before..
on the other hand,
I have seen a unicorn,
soaring across the sky,
morphing from man,
to wolf,
to animorph,
and landing in a cascade of rainbows,
and one more thing,
if you think,
that you know it all,
well, there are wonders out there that you have yet to see,
and if you think you're right,
about anything,
then you've never met a unicorn before.