Mr. T

Dino takes a chunk from his ear,
pulls beetled roots and cummerbunds
long strands of twig and leaf.

He is a regular Mike Tyson.
Neither pitied nor a fool
He makes minced meat of mantras
when mantras come.

Mmmm, comes an echo.
Mmmm, he repeats.
Mmmm in the valleys.
Mmmm in the streets.

Mr. T. does not say a word.
Revenge is in his roots.
It speckles the dirt
fizzes crumbled granite milkshake
from the tremor of his strut.

The fall will come swift.
Revenge will be sweet.
Mr. T. has a witness.
Mr. T. knows his rights.