Here be an age when men lack roots
and spread like roots into the soil
to find no purchase as ease loots
them of their energy and toil.
Here be an age that cries for Blood
and Entertainment in the streets
and cobblestones and humble mud...
and both hors d’oeuvres with front row seats.
I extricated my old roots,
replacing them down under here
because the niche I grew here suits,
because the people just stand clear.
So long as I have words in hand
I’ll glow until I’m ash and bone.
I am a stranger in this land
and, too, a stranger in my own.
