H. Peers into The Mirror of Tezcatlipoca
I have my dogs, my companions
every time I draw down the slope
of a line that leads to the smoke
chamber--I see the future unfold,
untrue lies spreading like delicate foil.
Then there’s the oil I put in the tank--
the deserts I kill and the thick
groves of cottonwood I depict
where none had been before,
make my gift seem seldom and sick
with abuse: how else to write tomes but while
tanked, if only to fool the older fools
that you’re good at what you do. You’re
good at what you do.