my pants ripped at the seat…

prelude: here in this ironic bright sunshine

green leaves turn downward toward cool water

searching for sunken treasure long melted below…

act one:

a Thomas Hardy streetlamplighter

poses as a seamstress

fabricating another transplanted love affair-

secret meetings

 with other boys’

scratched asses

torn and tight,

and above is as below obviously…

act two: 

my shirt has been ripped off my back… 

I am facing forward significantly,

expecting the cosmic jailer to sentence my chest to castration,

each cell getting lonelier day by day,

while conspiring roaches

whisper for companionship, human…

next act:

my shoes have fled from their souls at last,

run from these torrid times,

gladly having traded me in for barefeet,

and in haste I fail to notice the destruction

as fires melt the flesh away before each step taken

(I must bring nails to the shoemaker tomorrow

to cobble together my endurance and toughness)

the final act:

vermin begin to pick at my exposed legs,

paying no attention to solitude,

for they have endured centuries

to earn these free meals-

and the more inviting the flavors,

the more these hungry crowds flock

to the streets

epilogue: 

the prey has at last become predator,

collectively,

 one against one my body surmises…

rats are the only true revolutionaries

Bisbee 5/22/76