poets, comedians and villains
always follow
in their path. Each claims
to know the truth; says
everyone is equal;
how things changed
because things had to change.

If this is the only sense
I make, this is the only sense:
I am watching you undress
through the window;
I have fallen in love
with the grammatick
lunacy I have spun;
as you are flung,
your image passes
through both window
and me.
The only sense I make
is what I have foretold—
the passing of time through
the planes rehearsed,
yours and my place reversed—
I am naked before you.

In myself:
everyone is equal
before the law.
In you:
the victim, the
law requires it.
Everyone else can be part
of the jury (or the moon),
shining reflected
through the window
(in everyone’s thoughts.)

As we:
undress the victim,
read the blood in the mirror,
a story told in flesh
so old, so new, so fresh
we are refreshed
in spite of ourselves
by a triumvirate—
the incoherent, the liar, the thief.

The thief we kill to precede
the new god, leading him to death,
that pomp and ritual be observed;
the poet we burn to light god’s way
to the resurrection; the comedian
tells jokes.

There are laws,
there are commandments,
there are threes—

mother, father, son,
furies, fates, sisters,
bibles, stages, faces of eve,

guns and superheroes,
the inevitable consequences.