The vet calls it “extrusion” & prescribes
an antibiotic, room-temperature, as if the cat 
cares.  He’ll lose that fang in a few weeks.
I ask the vet if she knows some place 
that could gold-plate the tooth & hang it
on a silver chain, an amulet against
this evil century.  She shrugs & glances
away as if I’m a Scientologist or mentally ill.
O, ye of little faith!!  The Mai Mai rebels
believed holy water changed the bullets
of the government troops into rain.
They brandished spears, wearing nothing
but shower caps on their heads & around
their necks, bath plugs for amulets.  
Easy pose not easy no more.  Nothing not 
easy no more.  But come, hang this cat’s tooth 
around your neck & see how much it helps.  
The Mai Mai rebels?  20% almost survived.
                        

Drunk on words?  No, 
drunk on this thermos of sangria,
my own recipe, cheap merlot,
leftover brandy, chopped-up lemon
& the tip of my right thumb
among the ice cubes, clicking,
a sound no one’s noticed.  
                  
The next to last poem compares 
Marxism to a bicyclist leaning 
against a silver fire hydrant,
admiring his day-glo orange shoes.
I don’t get it.  Ask the sangria,

which I do.  Consider the universe 
of smells, the last poem asks us,
consider the mutt in the bookstore
sniffing the drowsy readers’ legs, 
his tail slapping to beat the band.
Why that cliché?  That particular 
dumb cliché?  Ask the sangria. . . .  

Me?  I’m loose as a mesh coin purse, 
pacific as the slowest suicide 
& I stand, smiling to beat the band,
clapping ‘til the cows come home.