Everyone’s A Kingpin

The pink silk coat and ivory-pommelled daggers
typify the mercenary spirit that inhabits me.
I live to make my own history, look no further
than my hand to find evidence of that:
crevices blackened by blood not tar.
Does that make you withdraw in horror
or lean closer as your ears enjoy a tickle
now and then? Let it comfort you to know
we are here by design and yet no blueprint
exists outside a braincase staring down
at us from some lofty coign of vantage.
Limit your questions to those you think
would anger me, haha, yes it’s an adage
from the country of my mind, where I live
without reins, without warrants or grounds
for arrest or execution. Let me give
you all a word of advice: when you’re nice
to the savage, he might let your head
remain on your shoulders, like a well-fed
featherless parrot or a gourd painted
flesh tone rocking a toupée. Repeat after me:
I will not linger in this cray-cray land.
Once again: I will not linger in this ...