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Concerning a Diary Found in the WoodsTo Time Button's previous piece

Parade of Monkeys

I've been on the wagon for weeks
clean and sober, without an ounce of poetry in me
muddled meanings, hazy pretension, wild sideburns,
they will not drown today's
everyday festivities with misconception.
Hundreds of feet below on the movie screen
a newsreel proclaims "Local Students Show Spirit!"
and out comes the primate procession;
dolled up monkeys in make-up and wigs
play-act, singing tuneless tunes
while flinging feces and masturbating wildly.
My bell tower box seat offers
the perfect view; and aim.

I didn't need to remind myself
that this is an interactive documentary;
every lion knows it's being filmed
when it sticks it to the zebra
or eats a rival's young
but never does it fail to give it the old Ivy league effort.
Still, I cannot help but wince when
I make my pet perform its one and only trick
and the band leader's face erupts
into the beginning of slow, wet, fireworks.
The volume's been turned all the way down
but I'm pretty sure of the sound the other monkeys make
on account of the reactive "oh" on their faces.

For all their pomp and pride they can't keep formation
amidst the rockets red glare
and other theatrics brought to fruition.
They are running and screaming, yes
but they have always been running and screaming.
The director threw up his hands long ago
and since then this monkey improv jam session
has been in need of a blind force.
But I am no hurricane, I am no angel,
I am a mother bearing her breast
for all the orphan children of the world;
letting monkey babes suckle 'till they are full,
laying them down to a deep and deserved sleep.

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