By David Eide  

In the Valley of the Barbarians

The rider, bereft of his golden horse,
dangles between cliffs of apposite effects;

the maimed crowd has laughed for a thousand years
and through the thousand worlds they have destroyed.

The tribes move south this year, out from the tundra.
The tribes are headed for the center of the Empire. 
The Empress herself is passed easily among the men.
They elect a horse to lead them, feeding it intoxicants
       until it rides out in festive excitement.

An old man shakes his shaved skull; "when we enter the gates
we'll kill the fuckin' intelligent one's." The witches are at dance.
And one dreams when the virgin will be hers.