a PROCLAMATION sat bare on his
lips, stutter stepping toward
the cliff and waiting for earth
to move. no quake came. too
dry he thought, and thumbed
the cognac’s nutritional facts
— jaundiced jasmine from the
hot buttered sun. to save his
mouth’s fertile ground, he doo
-wopped his rainless lips ‘round
the Grand Marnier. he sang there
until rain didn’t feel like rain, or
wash away the dirty dancing. his
ten-karat-teeth watched that
cliff grow green. they didn’t know
the difference between gold and gold
plated, or hear the PROCLAMATION
remember its name — falling from
his lips in seismic waves: AND FOR
HIS SAKE, I HOPE THEY NEVER FIND
TUPAC. some say it jumped.