Touched in the head by an oblique angle,
only answers to his bread and butter,
under the weather next to never, see
cash money can't fix nothing but dinner,
hovers over a harmonium drone,
eclipsed by the sound of the sarangi,
diminished by augmented fourths and fifths,
introspective, not worth a dime to spare,
not worth a crisp one dollar bill, holler
to the top of the mountain, the echoes
holler back until the skies turn clear blue,
even the ocean will never weigh smoke,
hostile island natives kill a stranger
elected by God as emissary,
acting in good faith with incurable
diseases, he only wants to save them
bloody heathens murder missionaries
yet, live contentedly with no knowledge
as God is a figment of language games,
noble savages know nothing of God,
only it takes one man to make the news,
brilliant for a servant of the Good Book,
little did he notice in the mirror
important facets in his face they read
quicker than the indigenous people
under occupation in the New World,
each sailor gave them small pox blankets,
angles hit him in the head until stars
nudged his brain to drink more water, dizzy
gyre whirls tilted a kilt with bagpipe drone,
little did he realize his mistake,
enter his body, arrows for a corpse.
No comments:
Post a Comment