Poem #43

From the Annals of Clara’s on Sundays: The People vs Cromwell…

Watch, what the world would create when
weaned from their motherlands, bird-men and bird-women and bird-children,
fallen from their egg-rest to their melancholic moment of mortality,
in the dark matter of the unknown.

In various nationalities how would you define heretic?
The conversation grows a silence thick,
Abrupt clash of Thor from ‘cotta to the sky.
Some take to shooting pigeons.

Judgment is public, surrounded by clones of Peter at the fate.
I find a golden-rod ruler broken by a boot print
and stomped into the lawn outside the gate. I ask Kafka if flies migrate?
Tackling a mob of injustice, weary with toil, I’m a king: checkmate.

April 19, 2015


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