"Self-Portrait as a Scarecrow"
I am happy to ignore
the albino babies, crying their pink diamond tears,
and fluttering their red, toothless, frog-like gums
I'll lock them away in the stable, for a night,
alongside the fat corpse of a sacred cow
Perhaps they deserve to cry
They aren't old enough to imagine Christ,
in slow motion, pushing a vacuum cleaner
back and forth, across a rug
I am legally deaf to their nonverbal language
Underneath my loose hood, to hide
the permanent wrinkle of my face,
dead mites are fertilizing the gilded lilly
that blossoms forever, post-impeachment,
like a handicapped archangel suspended in time
Which leads me to believe
I need not take responsibility for the petty crimes
I once committed out of spite - the slur campaign I ran
against my own circulatory system, and the nights
I'd eagerly trespass on private grounds
The sublime beauty and grandeur of my
extended kittenhood, the sacred relics I pump with my hands,
and the waste that trails behind me during the moulting season
is, naturally, irrelevant
and should perhaps be challenged at a war crimes trial
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Poem from April 9th, 2008.
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