Born of trees
whose timeless atoms
carried on their savage
act of indolence
in annual assault of leaves
upon the earth
while their branches
felt up the sky
where the white man’s God lives,
this paper
holding these petroglyphs
is neither apology nor legacy
but a wanted poster.
Now, dauntless before Dante’s
nocturnal emissions
of visions of Hell
I curse God and weep
because some creeps crept
though the back window and carried
away my typerwriter
while we were at the wake.
When I find them,
they will bleed broken English
from shattered mouths
and my fists
will sing songs of forgiveness,
unless of course
they’re my in-laws.
