The plaid boy from Khartoum was anything but oblique in his praise of parsimony. "I'm a patron of it--partridges, that is. I'm a lover."
A lover or a leaver,
what's your favorite feather? I say
this white ink (fjiord) ain't for me
but then 'gain, how bout rain?
My favorite fever is desire,
my favorite cookbook is about despair
or noodles, probably the latter,
and the adder goose-flesh
or the reason we don't eat rodents.
No more
the white man's smoke for me. I want to
be the red parade on your street
the blue festival in your valley
trumpets of bright yellow journeyman trumpetting "Savage!"
tapes spinning and unspun, deadhand.
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