About Nietzsche

Softly, Nietzsche landed on earth. He found
it green. He was alone, save for the horse—
it stood off to the side of a fallen wood
fence. There they had this talk.
Horse: do you actually see me? And Nietzsche:
yes, but to what end? Then the horse said: let me
tell you a story:
say there is one
you love much. Historically, you carry her things. Always a thing or two
on you she might use. Then one day—while riding,
she brings up horses. Casual. How there are many different kinds,
and one just can’t generalize. In fact, it’s (pardon) horseshit
for Horse to unionize! Then quickly she’ll switch
the subject to God.
The God is a daffodil
up on a greening hill. He grows ears in the crowd; how soft
he puts roots in their ears. The whole world breaks into this vintage applause.
And you? You
just trot on with her on your back
stricken, unbucking—and pretty soon
there’ll be a picture of you pulling a cart in every deli, and
every girl will wear her dress—
(Nietzsche sunk to his knees.) One lash
for each eyelash! You are here, horse pressed on, because you can
see the suffering now, and one you love best
loves to shop for its ineffable bridles, and soon you’ll learn
the song of the pretty bridle is stronger
than the song of the wound that it grooves, and soon no-one
will give a fig about the humbled Nietzsche—

This is the whitest shit
I’ve ever written. Truth is, Osama bin Laden
was killed today, two women were shot
in that raid, and yet again
I can’t escape this feeling of living in a world of men
whose intricate games
I’m to jeer and cheer, but they leave my head
blank like