THE ANCIENT FUTURE
Were you to wear
cocaine in your hair
no matron would deny
your face, deny the absolute
proof you are a hempen harlot,
the doll of robust criminals
straight out of a holy-causing land.
To make matters
more better, you
are
an alumbastard child,
an enigma without a clue,
a rice rebel.
How tempting to say
you have known sewers,
your heart is the essence of sewers.
Your lyric lynches metaphors,
bears fruit as strange as love.
Told to unrain the atmosphere,
as if you were divorced from language,
immune to thorns of irony,
you ruined the urban swamp.
The sole conclusion, Katrina, is
you are truly a trumped-up misfit,
a thing to be unbirthed and buried
when time and space have lost their names.
Jerry W. Ward, Jr.
August 20, 2015
Poem for August 29, 2015.
