“He swallowed himself up, and that was the end.”
— Charles Bukowski, On Dylan Thomas

Some jackass with a lance is buying rounds,
the helmet on his head, the whole damn show—
Dulcinea on his lap, her quid pro quo
already settled, judging by the sounds.
I’ve seen this horse before. It comes around
like clockwork, every age, the vertigo
of men who need a windmill for their woe,
a noble cause to drown in. Noble clowns.
The bar is full of Don Quixotes, George,
they’ll tear the goddmaned palace down,
all fourteen hands, like Shiva on his comeback tour
while you and Einstein contemplate the war,
so far from pantaloons and tinfoil crowns.
While I—I lean like Vishnu, dreaming with a flower.