Medicine Men Howl
With a feather I inquired like Jack Wilson,
And chasing the evil of stars, I would be a chief of Indians,
Although the God-damned camp fires burn like Rome.
I would take you to Morocco to paint as if French
Or talk to you on Cezanne’s early failures.
Teenage medicine men are ghosts and war like Rommel.
They also howl bizarre like poets in the morning.