black pharoah

dispatch from the troop historian...

i live too near the slaughterhouse.
what do you expect? silver blood
like chattertons? the dankness of my hours
allowed no practiced foresight.
i hear the branches snap and break
like ravens in a quarrel,
and see my mother in her coffin
not moving
quietly not moving
as i light a cigarette
or drink a glass of water
or do anything ignominous.
what do you want?
that i should feel
deceived?

(the green of the weeds in
the sun
is all we have
it's all we really have.)

i say let the monkeys dance,
let the monkeys dance
in the light of god.
i live too near the
slaughterhouse
and am ill
with thriving.