‘praise be the rooster’

the fiend wreaking

chaos, crowing

dawn sends satan

scurrying back to dark

recesses, twist

the blinds closed, respite looks

 like a quiet apartment.

in the meantime,

the rooster cawing day-

break, loyal knight

guarding the lord

below, wakes me

refreshed, enough sleep

to begin the comedy.

i think he lives

in a courtyard on york

street. i think i live

in the brash cry signaling

unapology, existence natural

anachronistic and purely

out of modernity’s clutch—

clutch instead the wrinkled skin

taloned claw of the rooster’s

foot, hand-holding

the master’s lessons:

use, ecstasy, ego, laughter.

cock-

crows praise

be the rooster:

i am the rooster.