Amnesia
Losing all politeness
since pigs are really pigs and nothing else. After eating
their young, they strut around with swelled nostrils snouted
to the air, and feces, an afterthought confectionery, sliming
down their chin. So we'll say pigs and nothing else like
half ape, half stallion is really a dog jumping to the
crack of a whip; swimming in a pool of puncheon; staggering
to hold on to his King James collar; remembering to play
de whe: cat is 21, death really means marriage and mama
came crawling last night in de form of maggots sayin she
home and granddaddy keepin her company. SORRY WE DON'T
ACCEPT CREDIT CARDS FOR LOTTO. CASH ONLY. THANKS.
It doesn't matter
who won, the cocks will continue to fight down there in
dem barracks and yards where the earth is mixed with too
much dust and blood so it curds but never cultures. The
cocks are fiercely scratching though, pecking beaks still
gaping for more than the smell of foul pen feathers as
they cockle. The cane fields burning jaundice in their
eyes.
It doesn't matter
who won the race but who carries a hogshead on its shoulders,
running for miles, night long upon nights, days gone and
stilled days while God sits in the white tower with a shot-gun
taking out everyone: dog jumping to the crackling whip,
all the dirty cows invading the streets whose dung is useless
in the city, even the once wretched sheep turned wolves
after making Monsoon's lambs scream martyr, even the well
behaved Siamese cat gently purring, licking off her mother's
ancient fur and the cocks and the pink pigs with their
blue ribbons squealing now--struck down--and superman,
too late, realizes how delicate he is to the kryptonite
sun.
