dawntime, lafayette park.
no lost then found glimmering treasure
could hope to buy the minutest millisecond
spent basking in the sanctified shadow
of your ingeniously improvised cardboard castle.
a brown-bagging, benevolent bodhidharma
cashing in on centuries of good karma
with a wizened, whimsical, john henry glare,
oft-trampled frame and blown-out hair,
clothes striped and tattered like some
ripped amerikan flag, like the one
you used the other day
to wipe your blessed arse as you squatted
behind a colony of bushes, hamming it up
for the cameras of outraged tourists.
a ganja-guzzling, goodhearted gandhi
who blasts recordings of alpha blondy
with a simmering, salacious, frederick douglass smile,
black and blue hands and gold watch with no dial,
shoes sole-less and spotted, olmec statue
nose perpetually snotted, donated fruit
already rotted, and swarming with maggots;
you have no problem with all the whores and faggots
who compete for a visitor's attention
in this olympiad of desperation;
you have no problem with the perennial protesters
dressed in gitmo suits, chanting free tibet
who hug the spiked fence in front
and offer you free hugs, too.
willy b, homeless, free,
across from the white house,
that satanic slave-made marble lair,
choosing not to hit the road,
and yet forever roam.
in the distance you can see:
george washington's prick
and the capitol dome, the sod carpet
of the national mall, the glinting glass of museums
that you will never be able to enter
without a shower, a change of clothes,
and a kleenex to wipe your nose.
they found willy brown, one noiseless morning,
face down, his head puffed inside a plastic bag
a lack of oxygen causing him to drown.
