Poem: Rivergoat

Rivergoat, born of Kilroy,
who was there.
Rivergoat: a rogue,
imprinted to creation amid decay.
So Rivergoat
sets up shop
against entropy
in the industrial swamp of North America,
making obscure poetry.

It is a dangerous town.
The fear is still here,
the scare still there.
Four men in a big car --
not a police Plymouth --
trap you two against a wall,
a flashlight explodes,
Yoke that dude
six pistol shots

Rivergoat listed ambitions, chored.
That was in the morning.
By the dreay fade of the business day,
nothing. Rivergoat did not fret,
failed. Sipping cocoa in Camelot,
Rivergoat didn't get compulsive,
empty-handed, alone.
Just being here, the mobility, the maturity,
was a guzz.

Jogging through the woods,
coming down from leaping a log
and twisting sideways to avoid a branch,
Rivergoat's back
goes snap,
twisted like the spine of the city
where Woodward becomes John R.

Rivergoat ages fast.
No more mountain fantasies,
all he's fit for is the children's zoo.
Glue. Boo-hoo.
Goatbrain gets its game
up tight,
balanced up there on a weak back
with the structural strength
of stale Pringles.
"Yes," Goatbrain says,
with teahead confidence,
"Rivergoat will rise again.
Rivergoat will revisit
Arrowhead Ambush,
Lisa's Swamp, Boss River,
Sleeper Hill, Rickety Bridge.
Rivergoat will patrol
this city of immigrant car-makers.
Slay dragons. Eat maidens.
Carve out peace."
Rivergoat, flat on his back.