among the hills of chamomile and the hills of heather
under which the romeos and desdemonas
were buried, for ages of rough windy weather
there lived a seasoned comedy troupe
skilled at praising heavens for their able mouths
for the faint promise of power
as long as the air is filled with words
with well rehearsed lines and plentiful laughs
[never wonder why
any words of truth in this neighborhood
can only fall like dry chickpeas
on a tin roof of a doghouse
where a family of blind chihuahuas lives
of course, there will be much barking]
the comedy troupe performed daily
in the amphitheater in the valley
where the audience was accommodated
in a mile long, double-sided sofa
encircling the stage
the sofa's comfort was made entirely
of everything ever swept under the rugs
by the law enforcement impersonators
who bet their lives on secrecy and yet
unknowingly expected a rain of silver bullets
releasing their closets from skeletons
while they sat comfortably on their sofa
sipping chamomile tea, smalltalking weather
lying their lively worm-like lies
in never-ending unspoken contest
for the most glorious display of duping delight
which they called being victorious
don't wonder why the most powerful spoke
from the hilltops and not the stage in the valley
from the hilltops and not the stage in the valley
don't mind the streams of snake chains
sliding down from every hill
to the common foundry in the lowest valley by the lake
where the trophies were forged
awarded to the winners of the Framing-A-Scapegoat Competition
a cherished event held during the Man’s Right to Self-Righteousness Fest
the right so aptly expressed by the blind chihuahuas’ barking
with the help of the impersonators’ fingers praying to all saints
to protect the air from databases and files
and rivers of forgiven wine and spirits
from thoughts of elementary wisdom
for more lazy days among the hills of heather
don't mind the prayers and contests
look up toward the true heavens
wise man’s victory is not the same as fool’s
