soon the ape must return to its cage, 

though they long for the sun to warm their fur

and the breeze to fill their nostrils.

the streets are alive with blood and violence,

the singed edges of the empire beginning to 

run toward the center of the page.

there are lights, and music as present as the air,

and the ape longs for all of it with equal fervor.

an animal wants nothing more than to be surrounded

by brethren, all grinning at each other like sick fools

while the orange blaze catches their shining eyes

and they feel the simmering heat on their faces.

the ape hears many voices, some shaped like slick

black suits and oil-sheen oxfords clicking hopelessly,

some shaped like a pretty pink flower print and new plastic sandals

both with a dead man’s likeness in gold under their shirts.

they whisper who the ape is, who the ape should be,

what the ape wants, what everybody wants.

their voices call for god damned normalcy

rising to become a crushing weight

and the ape is crumbling like the shuddering earth 

under all of their feet.