Take my pen and hand me a sword.
Take my sword and hand me a pen.

The Donau held its breath, turned blue, & died,
the hills could only stare & shake
their complacent heads,
the winds avoided Bavaria all together
as the pale apes butchered her shapely neck--
smearing blood upon the kiss of revolution.

I Poet, if you can hear my feeble howling,
say to me you understand;
say to me the spirit, the phoenix,
knows my name.

Do not tempt me, inferno of the mind,
to chase to embrace idols of paper.

It is not the offended world upon your ears
but the strong rush of blood
to your head,
Poet, my love.

You can only be dead,
with the spittle of laughter
shiny where your lips meet,
because we need you dead.
Alive, you are like us. . .
useless to our uncertainties.

Yours prayers I read, at night,
while metaphors hide from the day,
they echo in my scenarios,
legitimate glitches.

The horn broke the skin,
in some bar room, I suppose,
all German accomplishments begin in bars,
replaced you were not,
but slaughtered, & eaten,
I can only hope that
your blood, on impact,
did not run from the block,
or was caught in a chalice,
but splattered on everyone's
cheeks, & one of those marked
returned to the bar where the horn first rose
testified before He who sits at the end of
the bar.

~SAS~