Seven Attempts to Portray Mr. President


He is alone in the hall,
red cup in hand,
feather hat on head.

Through the window one can see scattered corpses,
knocked down trees
and a handful of rabid dogs
wandering around.


He leans against
empty space,
his eyelashes stuck to the glass,
his toothless mouth chewing unintelligible words
about our vanishing glory.

And in the distance the royal guards
sit around a table,
barking at each other.


like a rotten apple,
from his apertures stream
black snakes and false secrets.


As he dozes,
he builds, out of his fantasies,
a wailing country
and awkward speeches


Full of pride,
he stands on the edge of the world
holding the bell of the final alarm
to ride back to the beginning of creation
as if he were trading two fires:
that of God and that of the battle


No citizens
profit by his wisdom
as he mixes flaming colors.
The citizens have no president
shaping their reactions
to his lengthy tales
about killing a ghoul
and his raging seas.


Biting his fingernails
with his bleeding gums,
he mourns over his falling image.