my pants are 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…

in 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…

in this act

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 this haste I fail to notice the destruction

as fires melt the flesh away before each dire step

(I must bring nails to the shoemaker tomorrow

to cobble together my endurance and toughness)

here in the final act,

vermin begin to pick at my exposed legs,

paying no attention to my yells of solitude,

for they have patiently endured centuries

to earn these free meals-

and the more inviting the flavors,

the more these scurrying crowds flock

outdoors into the streets

epilogue: the prey has at last become predator,

collectively one against one my body foolishly guesses…

may history decree:

rats are the only true revolutionaries

Bisbee 5/22/76