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sorry I haven't called

                                        sorry I haven't called
                                        been busy
                                        hunting for the bashful 18th century
                                        Vietnamese concubine from the emperor's court
                                        who hid for years inside Jack Kerouac's
                                        mild boddhisattva body

                                        you know who she was
                                        that pissed-off wildflower whose moonlit poems
                                        expressed bitter political satire
                                        using sexual innuendo
                                        and stately double entendre

                                        some
                                        about pictogram generals
                                        their muskets thoughtless metal
                                        with yearning ammunition two tiny balls
                                        promoted in flimsy sacs

                                        when I find her
                                        there'll be even better ones
                                        to accessorize emperor Bush
                                        and his oily cohorts