No Star Wears a Veil

               Judgement says to

                              This is what you really are;
                              you are a soul carrying a corpse.

               Men are at odds with their most
               constant companion: themselves.

Peddling unapologetic Amerrogance

as your evidence and not much else
at the entrance to an argument, you seek
to banquet on violets and poppy petals;

to eat the garnish, hesitant to blush
at your host’s memory of your last
compliment/conquest—the one that

touched his heart as you felled fulfillment
in his open hand; air-lifted contentment
from his home’s open ground. You let all

your host cannot trust to a guest so rushed,
fall when “slight demands” shook ordeal from
his orchards; when your shell arrived crushed.

No star wears a veil to his constellation
or expects the firmament to kneel on
hesitation, so why would the sun down

its brow in deference to your blindness?
Dusk reflects your stare, preparing Aries
for guests in his desert house—the best,

nothing less, for your tempest leading
culture into capture; the wind that justifies
rape with Rapture, tortures temples, even,

into collapse so your parched party can lap
ashen liquor—down the barrel—’round the track
wrecked hard like armoured cars with our

doors and hearts and heads pulled open and for
what? Rhetoric laid-out in-state doesn’t wait
or discriminate: even your minstrels paint-over

“Know” in bootblack with “Be Thyself” on hell’s gate.