Stampede, the Many Small Big Men of History

By | 1 October 2015

“It’s Time, It’s Time” retranslated

and the smell of her
obese slander and propaganda.
A republic
of disappointment. We may never
escape our consumption, a tractor beam of destiny.

The optimist says he bulls-eyes womp rats
in a T-16.

The new year ends old and
Braque with translation software

declares: It is time for the prime minister of public announcement.
Our tree goes up
while the Tibetans rehearse
in exile.

What things did they see beyond the Empire?

There is the murmur of the trick and the smell of her.

“On the path, you can send a bill. You’re friends.”
It never occurred to him
that things would end this way.

He had bought hats
for every occasion

save this not-quite-chaos quietly inching towards catastrophe.

Contrary to anything his renovated lungs tell him,
he feels no comfort
for abandoning cigarettes.

And the poem ends with a funk as incongruous
as a single wife surviving a Mongol slaughter.

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