A work in progress.

For Subcomandante Marcos

1.

O long ago, in navigating a night
      without a celestial guide aglitter,
I, a poet bold and aching to pen, 
      as 'a fool to be handled like litter',
a masterwork to upraise the mad
      from the dumpster of their class,
hit a media company with an axe,
      smashing their shopfront of glass. 

And yes, journalists, politicians 
      and psychiatrists, deeply affronted,
impaled me on a sleek skyscraper,
      but alas, when Satan I confronted,
along with his three-headed dog,
      at the phoenixlike lift in perdition,
rather than permit me, as a poet,
      to improve the madling's condition, 
the fiend, his dealings on display,
      invoked such a devastating drouth
it withered, within a split second,
      all the precious words in my mouth    
and I, apprehensive a stereotype,
      vile and toxic, might incite a crime,
wildly resolved to express myself
      by acting unlawfully, like a mime.

2.

To be continued elsewhere.