The Great Horn

The Great Horn; a broken villanelle
A family’s want: to hinder famine’s ash,
some water, rice, and perseverance. Ache–
the malt in Africa’s poor, sour mash–

depletes philanthropists’ conviction, cash.
We pray thee God: Aplomb, humility–
a family’s creed to stave off famine’s ash–

audacity, enthusiasm’s flash,
objective-autonomic rule we beg.
The malt in Africa’s poor, sour mash:

intimidation; children’s bodies smashed,
inhoomed under terrorism’s sway;
and family dearth. Deferring famine? Ash

deposits, guerilla compacts, the gnash
the lions generate obfuscate greed–
the malt in Africa’s poor, sour mash.

Hyenas spurn the ruminated trash
and hunt the donkeys mothers use to fill
their family’s want expanding famine’s ash
the malt in Africa’s poor, sour mash

Dang . . .

I had been contemplating caucusing with the Democrats. Tonight. In fact, I was planning on it for a month and had even debated it with my roommate, Ken (he likes the Dems except for one thing: “There are way to many [undocumented Hispanic Americans [insert any profanity and racist term you think appropriate]]”).

Then I got sick. I have been punished by a fever and chill. Ken says God is torturing me for my evil, liberal-secular, thoughts.

Oh bother.

I was planning to go to the Republican caucuses on Thursday to cause trouble.

Ken says I’ll be afflicted with the plague to prevent it.

We’ll see. I think God thinks Republicans are funny, too.

I won’t continue longer. I don’t write well when I’m sick. I did write a poem (earlier), however:

 

I found a pinecone

in the trash

looking of popcorn and drying cola

smelling of earth

smelling of earth

Regarding the L

Regarding the L

 

God knows I’m traveling, man.

Don’t tell which train I’m on.

God, I’m a traveling man.

Can’t tell which train I’m on.

Brown Line, Orange Line, Pink Line

which one I’m getting on.

 

No tower 18 guide.

All switches are open.

Tower 18 don’t guide.

Those loop switches’re open.

Heading for downtown, God,

keep those switches open.

 

headhouse occupies the

block. hundred foot ceiling

covered in glass keeps man

waiting on benches. up

above Amtrak keeps its

offices. entrances

access underground trains

through subterranean

passage ways, lanes, tunnels.

 

God knows I’m traveling, man.

Out them grand staircases.

God, I’m train traveling, man.

Out, out grand staircases.

Milwaukee or New York

bound those grand staircases.