Slaves, let us not curse life.
— Rimbaud
When he enters the port of misery
and clogs the path to victory,
traffic behind his parade stalls
for hours of miles.
On his highest horse
he rides high, dead set
on reining all the cities
the weak citizens, the babies
eat only dust, thus
raising him up
like a brilliant banner or trophy
after the win. And win
is what he must,
he can live no other way.
He escalates up the road
to the castle by the sea
where he will dine the rich
write bullied sentences
rage against those who elevate
rage against those who do not.
A civil war within him
sheds darkness on the world.
He is not a prisoner
of reason but of largesse
punishing the herd of lowing cattle
he looks down upon
from his gilded throne.
Under cruel moons, a bitter sun
he sits tall in the saddle
full of his own vagrancies
his ambiguous face a twist
of warping reflection
and in that sad mirror
the poor animals
see themselves
the farce we all must live
unless a blue tidal wave
sweeps him out to sea.