In the desert of south Utah,
lies a staircase of gods.

Follow the southwestern wind
there to the middle,
until you find
the tomb of The Gore King.

The smallest version
of a frightful legend,
five-inch fangs
in sutured jaws,
a skull like a comet,
dragging death forward
to
any
next
new
blood.

How quaint,
how horrible and honest,
to demand your meals,
to roar your lust.

You should have stood straight,
practiced grins
and built museums,
friendly temples
of natural history,
yesterday's dangers
made safe
in cartooning winks.

Now,
your reign of terror
diverts
our screeching young.