The devil will open his mouth
and invite you in.
Carry a chicken bone, or a lion’s paw.
Prepare a pot of hot soup.
Feed him and you’re off the hook,
but if he’s hungry, things begin
to happen. Be cool. Freeze
your face into a mask.
No matter where you go
there are people of power.
There was a string of kings in Chicago
and I knew a few of them.
There was a group of us
and I wasn’t a part of it.
I left. I met the President
of the Middle of the Road.
He wore a T-shirt advertising
rotten food and lousy coffee.
Then the bird of my mind
descended.
The bird of my mind
returned to find
its nest was a mess.
I ingested my ancestors.
144,000 delusional godheads
marched through my radiant inner city.
Now I serve the elders with both hands
and I let the fruit ferment on the branch.
This appeared in the January/February 2013 issue.
