Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2014  Vol. 13  No. 1
an online journal of literature and the arts
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His long & glowing tail

by all them was admired & wished
he’d wag it mighty good.
Ain’t that the way, dung beetle nose
notwithstanding, wagging’s
what we want deep down, everybody
fetching for our sorry ass.
That face never known Jesus, she said.
Don’t look curious to know
nobody, say I. Stillborn heretofore,
maybe Mao save his no-count
life: drop him in the sticks
hoe in hand, scrawling counter-
revolutionary credos in a pointy hat
for reeducation—Il faut dire:
Laissez cents fleurs fleurir!
dine on fleas, bend his whine
to the masses. Mind you, he hairy
& big, got himself a bushy tail,
whereof I wee & plump
& chrysanthemum pink.
Like board games, I Ching, the Bible,
we all know what happens—
go to jail, sink the Seventh Fleet,
lop off Samson’s mane—
makes no nevermind once box
or book is open, The End
the same. Dog, I say,
is the people’s color: Dog
the color of redemption & revenge.
Delilah weren’t a fool.
Laissez mille ecoles de philosophes
combattre! They eat dog in China.
Huff & puff all you want
sweet cakes: I smell you for mine.  end  

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