We Mongoled Human experience.
We pushed it into our mouths
As the crisp pretzels of which the shape became salty
dust
At our tastes: the crispness of life,
And we Mongoled human experience.
The tequila, that Sandras or Cassandras, or whomever
it had beeen
At the moment of malevolently blessing our heated and
Maddening consumption, was what we left
Our wives for; and then hardened ourselves on
The springless cushions of the sofas of our friends
Whom we eventually forgot the names of:
The wetness of human experience that we Mongoled,
And felt the bladed emptiness
Of stomachs that could not consume food
On mornings after. But the Angels of bar rooms
continually
Appeared before darkened stages where, in front of
guitars,
We played. They apppeared at various stages to the
weeks of the years.
They came, silently whispering themselves off
As Sandras or Cassandras;
Stared up at us for two hours; and disappeared.
The reappearance of their light enamored us, and we
left
And followed but found bats that offered
No shelter, and often caves we could not fit into
Or were forbidden from entering.
We invested our capital
In the Silicon Valleys of this great nation.
Third-world bitches, in factories, became sick for our
chips.
We held power.
We bred metals and bought the ownership titles
Of properties, but could not find a home of the world.
We married again and brought forth children
Who were duplicate strangers of ourselves.
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