A wonderful audience.
I call this poem "Reggae Renga."
And let me explain the title, Renga purely
means that it's linked verse and in this case,
it's a series of 12 haiku epigram hybrids;
each line is end stopped and is self-contained.
And each moment, which-- each moment is
distilled moment and so forth.
Reggae, reggae because it's a protest poem
and because I wrote the first draft
while listening to Bob Marley's I Shot the Sheriff.
And hence, we have Reggae Renga.
A man flat on his back can't go to the doctor.
Let him die woman, so that he will no longer beat you.
He says, meet me at the hallowed temple near the Buddha's
topknot.
He is dying, dying fast in his delirium,
he is ever so beautiful.
I am late and reach only as far as the ear lobes
where I hear he has gone.
There are trees on the mountains and branches on the trees.
My anger so clear, I can see the hairs
on the caterpillar and the wind on the hairs.
I can tell the paths that he has violated
by the bent lay of the grasses.
Within him is a worm that loves itself and forgets
whom he is loving, his mouth or his asshole.
Near the tombstone is a plum tree.
A cock crows upon it saying, man, you are no good.
The people of my country are baleful.
They've sent me to accuse you.
What is your ailment, wretched white, your ailment,
will no birds sing?
[APPLAUSE]