I missed an appointment. It was a dream.
No, it was true. I missed the appointment
for real. No, it was a delusive dream
like sec'lar kings anointed with ointment:
Bengué, bengal tiger – icey hot balm –
put 'em together and watch it splatter
the "palace" walls with relax and calm;
you call it "art," I say it don't matter:
In fatter days, like when the mangoes dropped
off trees and not eyes, off peels and not skies
to fall on baldhead eagles of untapped
potential – until some "potentate" "dies":
There's so much violence in these divisions;
why not peel off towards swift, sweeter missions?
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