← v5n1, Spring 2006
Poetry · Volume 5, Number 1

Canto

Granted, Ez, Monticello’s stables are nice

To visit, wouldn’t want to live there, but then

Spent no time in open cell or closed tent

Either, “Caged Eagle,” old buzzard, lamenting, ,

Your “twice-crucified” dead, chthonic tonic,

“H., M.” among the strewn corpses, the stench,

Mussolini poem was lost when the hard drive

Crashed, no great loss, always another sawed-off

Little Caesar around, hic, “Mother of God,”

Blacksmith’s spawn, rusticus ready

To fill the air with deception and betrayal,

Kiss the current Führer’s furry arse, that part

Of the job apparently not too difficult,

“Is this the end?” why is it, do you think,

That the silence of those final years rings truer

Than so much of all that village explaining?