A fifty year perching
Or: The accidental dissident
Accidental dissidents are unhappy on purpose,
not accidentally. One falls, bleeds, mops up.
One doesn’t bear his placenta for twenty years
wiping it on every bare white face or the gray
above it, or the smirk below it, or the weasel
smack in the middle. Oh hell, what dying will do
in the street or in your own paisley bedroom
where no man ever went to live in for long,
and what dying will do on another few men
you blew up talking to, yawning high, yawning low.