His long & glowing tail

by all them was admired & wished

he’d wag it mighty good.

Ain’t that the way, dung beetle nose

notwithstanding, wagging’s

what we want deep down, everybody

fetching for our sorry ass.

That face never known Jesus, she said.

Don’t look curious to know

nobody, say I. Stillborn heretofore,

maybe Mao save his no-count

life: drop him in the sticks

hoe in hand, scrawling counter-

revolutionary credos in a pointy hat

for reeducation—Il faut dire:

Laissez cents fleurs fleurir!—

dine on fleas, bend his whine

to the masses. Mind you, he hairy

& big, got himself a bushy tail,

whereof I wee & plump

& chrysanthemum pink.

Like board games, I Ching, the Bible,

we all know what happens—

go to jail, sink the Seventh Fleet,

lop off Samson’s mane—

makes no nevermind once box

or book is open, The End

the same. Dog, I say,

is the people’s color: Dog

the color of redemption & revenge.

Delilah weren’t a fool.

Laissez mille ecoles de philosophes

combattre! They eat dog in China.

Huff & puff all you want

sweet cakes: I smell you for mine.