Taxidermy

All around me are the vegetable eaters,
the people so full of the sunshine they eat,
and so sunny with radiant lips.
But above here, in that not-so-lovely place,
is all fluorescent glow.

And further below are the meat eaters,
gnashers, and blood drinkers, and
in the end will be the gravediggers,
and grave-robbers, and my toes will become relics
for some gothic basement cause.

Today moves me through
this city again, and the pace has
picked up. I try to block out
all of the city sounds with my own
sounds, until those sound becomes familiar,

and all the worries of the Arab women
asking for help, and directions to the mosque,
fit into a chant that soon boils over me,
until a familiar voice and song -
my voice, my song - penetrates the hum.

Perhaps this is the way it should have
been from the beginning, me and my song.
I walk away at the first sign of showdown,
I want no battles with friends or enemies.
I can sing to myself at night, I can

sing myself to sleep, as I begin to float.
But then the men in the other room
speak like my father, 'If you get that black
on your hands, you can't get it off." And
I think I have something to tell you,

but a far off distant voice,
from a forgotten time has
paralyzed all of that now,
and they strap this sailor to the mast,
and I can feel the blood slowly depart.