Dark angels of the rotting green liquors and gutters of imperial pestilence, to make your prize and home there in the ass-holes of the world is more deserving of answer, mercy, consideration – all beyond my station, than to be forgotten, mocked or idealized.

An honest, suffering broker of youth, your ships sick on the high black seas of night and by the sprays of day in the fume and froth, of your liberation, humble and broken at the feet of slaves you defile, full well the knowing seer of our crimes.

A mighty ancestry of Spirit reach for eternities fore and aft, horizons of the real earth, patient, unconscious for the millennia save us and the many other creatures unfurled on shore, in Wilderness and beneath the black waves- never still.

Blasphemers of truth, easy to ridicule, never the less in earnest, en-masse, flayed, dead, having more babies in the bloom of goods and democracy that is America crashing down.  That is the sheep bleating of our slaughter, the savior of hope and faith bereaved, diagnosed with his own frailties, multiplying like an Army that takes his name. 



You needed a good dog and a wife, a house and a job, the bourgeoisie say like me, who never make it half way to honesty and in the glares of the far shore in queer bars of experience, we back away,

Rimbaud your name of the broken beast, the flag bearer pierced in the heart of all our guilt, unable, not caring to redeem, promised already at the Savior’s shabby table with the outcastes and animals silent, with time to chew like the cud in the manger.

As I think I have it, I am miles away, not close to the hem of your royal vision trampled in the dust where fans and admirers also build the idols of tribute as arrows unknowing to pierce the lack of our insight to a terrible and not divine suffering.

It should not be chalked up to time, a thing, an achievement, a man unequal, now dead as all remembered and to come, we miss the detail in praise and are helpless to salvage the losses.