Who are Poets

Giselle virgins skip rope
which is the shimmering and taut horizon ---
i'm talking 'bout antelopes
on the mirage plains of Mother Africa

A mile high where the air is cooler
the sun is also hotter,
and the vulture hooded scope below
dieing beasts, what feasts to pick to the bone
and mind your bloody manners, you clawed and beaked
raw is good, cooked is all too human


I'm wildebeest...this is my story waterhole
where my herd scents danger lurking
as crocodiles shut down their periscopes
the more adroitly to triangulate their massive jaws
and chomp the dreaming drinkers who untimely ignored
the stream from which they were sipping
raw is good, but cursed cooking incinerates the grasslands

Ye, fellow wildebeests and other panicked creatures
it's always is as foretold it was:
We all are one in happenstance
to predators - meal
to poets - food for thought
poets who unmercifully scavenge
the fallen, the feeding and the eaten