Today's poem is by Anthony McCann

Woe to the Wildebeest, Whose Flesh Is to Be Torn

They are not horses, they are large
and shaggy scholars. Sometimes
they look dignified and great.
Their voice is the voice of
certain frogs, a species
of enormous croaking.
Wildebeest, exact and sober Wildebeest!
Defrocked Franciscans, they roam the plains
teaching the grasses to sing and
to ejaculate. They are not hyenas, they
are Wild Dogs. Beneath the surface of the plains
they hunt cocaine
and the elusive Wildebeest.
In their features we see the features of
other creatures:
The Downy Woodpecker.
The Humpbacked Whale.
The Wildebeest ejaculate.
They are heavy headed mammals and
it makes them sad,
it makes them hang their heads
which gives them a formal air
during lectures and group discussions.
Their stamping and their waste
discipline and rejuvenate the grass.
It's been years since the Gods
took away their pants.
They are not badgers—
they are Wild Dogs. They are
great kissers and experts.
They are specialists
in refrigeration. At night
they burrow
beneath the plains
in the fevered hunt
of fresh cocaine. At dawn
they see the Wildebeest.

Copyright © 2005 Anthony McCann All rights reserved
from Moongarden
Wave Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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