WEBVTT

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While he was dying of
everything inside and out,

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I caught in dreams at night
some kind of scale or bark

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that spread across
my face and arms

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until I looked diseased
and knew myself at last

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and found no peace in
knowledge after all.

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My friend, by
contrast, I presumed

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to love beyond the
physical, beyond the dream.

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And as he got
cadaverous and sore

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it made me more
devoted than I was

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in all the days of his
untrammeled vanity.

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Easy for me to love
while he lost hope,

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to dream while he lost faith.

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Re-entering that endless
and unsteady state

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a child is made to
suffer, having a body

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that won't stay put
or known, its visage

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ranging and deranging
and itself at last,

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at 12, tufted with fresh
atrocities of hair.

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Adults forget, but not for good.

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My friend stopped talking,
wrote a final poem,

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having shit for
subject and last word.

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He said, he's dead.

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He's dead.

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One of a hundred people
packed on flimsy benches

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in a tent agog for antics in
a circus animal, I'm bored.

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I crave exotic trains
of incarnation, things

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to swing or sway me, fancy
women or a man miraculous.

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Instead we get this painful
elephant put through his paces

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on a red footstool,
playing a terrible tuba

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or fumbling footman playing
the fool, and all around him

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hoots and tears swell
to wild derision.

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And I'll tell you why.

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Thanks to a bad road
diet and confinement

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and his shitty
life, the elephant

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is defecating now voluminously
out his nether end while

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wafting all the while in
front a coy pink scarf

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to win our hearts.

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And as he lumbers and
revolves saluting everyone,

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we see the shit
is half the show.

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The laughs come out in
spatters from the stands.

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We can't contain
ourselves being ourselves,

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already more than we
can stand to know.

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