Poets Mourn the Death of Liberace

Still stunned almost two years after the tragic murder of central Vermont's prize leghorn, Liberace, men and women from around the world pay tribute to the rooster loved by so many, and understood by so few. In this issue, Black Cow asks five poets to look beyond their grief and answer the question: "What did the rooster mean to you?"

 
  
  
The Death of Liberace

  
  This bird... this freaking bird...
  I saw him on the washing machine
  not long ago.
  "My spurs are long.
  My wives are many.
  Conjugation, serial-like,
  delights them."
  
  I sit atop appliances and wonder
  that Liberace's and my hearts
  did not beat in rhythm
  Under the same sky.
  
  I looked at his wives once.
  He looked at me and knew
  that he would keep them,
  that my efforts would not shake free 
  any of his harem.
  I walked over to my car,
  tapped the hood,
  to show the ladies I could drive.
  They knew their rooster couldn't.
  Yet they stayed true.
  I let a dollar bill fall to the ground, 
  subtle-like,
  So they'd know I was a man
  of means.
  Their eyes were soft as BBs.
  
  They were fine wives
  and chickens,
  and not for the taking.
  But always a man has to try.
  
  Worthy cock, crower,
  your hens remained yours
  and you a true brother
  of flint-souled men.
  You spoke
  the language of the spur.
  Your death is a reminder
  that the millstone of the world
  is hard
  and works in heavy wind
  and as it grinds us to dust,
  that dust is scattered thin
  in all four directions.
  
                      -Jebediah Reed
  
  
  
  
Untitled

  
  As midwinter sun
  dips below smoldering horizon,
  the full moon rises
  like a gleaming mushroom
  above the ridge to our East.
  The towns people go quietly about 
  their winter chores.
  I am reminded
  of a great, white bird.
  
                      -Han Ji-Sheng
  
  
  
  
ROOSTER

  
  A lusty bird
  Who strat absurd
  Upon the sawdust floor
  Did mount from rosey dawn
  'till late
  His chickens, eight,
  Behind barn doors
  
  He foiled the cat
  And dodged the coon
  But death again did knock
  He fell like Niagara
  And not even Viagra
  Can resurrect my lifeless cock
  
                      -Billy Kelso
  
  
  
  
EULOGY FOR LIBERACE
  (d. May the 27th, 2002)

  
  Here lies Liberace,
  Prince of Leghorns,
  King of Coop,
  He of the eight wives,
  Wild Hen Humper,
  White stallion of a bird,
  Last of his line,
  The general who oversaw
  The laying of 10,000 silent eggs,
  Shy percher of crab apple tree
  Who cheated raccoons
  Of their grisly feast
  On many moonless nights,
  He of the inch-long spurs
  And rose-red comb
  Who crowed the sun into the sky
  each day.
  Yeah, though his wounds were mortal,
  Did he peck back death itself,
  And advance-
  A rabid whirlwind of feathers,
  A Rasputin in his death throes,
  Blinded but uncowed in his fury,
  Uberchicken.
  
  Rest now, great bird,
  Beneath your favorite perch
  Alongside the last of your wives.
  And be still,
  As the spring rain falls gently
  Upon the blossoms
  Of the crab apple tree.
  
                     -Nick Copeland
  
                          
  
  
ESTE MUNDO

  
  Este mundo--
  Pienso en un huevo, companero. 
  Me duele la garganta.
  Me digo "no mas."
  Hambre, tan hambre, para conocer lo 
  Mas simple.
  Espero nada. Di me lo que es.
  
                      -Maria Alcazar Fuentes