“The Arena”

This methuselahian prick circus has long since burned
& broke into flocks of riverside sparrows
when sails were set on
Rhine’s fires, on captainless ships, disheartened – Susanna-
to weary sailors, spread on the
cross of port’s realities, to
bridges disrupted, rebuild w/ dawn scintillations
she’ll finally give temple to templeless
priests – why? turn hearts to cracked outcasts, even if they fit
gray, in the torn coat
pockets – let them still beat, beat why?
calling them
to masses of promenade beggars, return
river to sweet soiled beds, allow to speak
those, us? We never had a voice, name
nameless heroes: their whispering
birch crosses w/ gold plates
replace, don’t publish dumb
generation’s poems – banish scoffers to night
give them derisive pedestals, crack absurd
tabernacles, bury dilemmas in mud, so still will
live the poets, unsatisfied
in sleepless invisible
partisan utopias
from island-sands & under-desert rivers
dreamy, w/ a birch
cross as the only monument
purposeless/accursed – nomads’ caravans
like thousands of light years before!