Posted on 28 October 2009

     Horace says
     this song of the chorus
     should not be interrupted
     and should not
     sing anything between acts
     that won’t advance the notion
     of the tragic plot.

A Houston man has Che Guevara’s hair
Inside a sandwich bag—a chargé d’affaires,
The Korda bob asunder, bob in lieu
Of man at auction, and the hair goes to…
Wall-mounted shelves, perhaps a breakfront. We
Do not suggest you get a bob. And be
Advised, no operatives are tailing you.
They need no evidence to holler, Clue!
You have no heat. Shut up. Here’s certitude:
There is no market for your hair. Conclude
The chase; surround yourself with photos of
A kitten; fantasize a turtledove.
Each evening dream of dolls that bear your high-
Step arch and dream of songs that edify
Your ass in sounds of Minneapolis
And red corvettes. Dream sui generis.
Wake up. Get up. You, stand up straight. Go past
The small black print and empty space, the last
Ecclesiastes’ page, and see where green
Hibiscus leaves’ profusely brilliantine-
Dried petals, from your funeral, will stand
For all the pretty China roses. Land
Assistance. Lose the chorus. Know our oft-
Consulted narrator is restless. Soft,
And ably-used, think anything can break.
Count 1993 as one mistake;
But, please, do not attempt to sell your hair.
The world does not belong to you, though there.
See spot. Now run. You won’t be missed. Just tuck
Your hair behind your ear and show some schmuck
Your face. Find love. Don’t think of movements, whole
Like motley flying of an oriole.
Remember how we started on a roll.
Ask God to bless each dear departed soul.

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