—MO: Writings from the River, Issue 3 Volume I, p.67
Richard Three was me when I killed my half-brother
For his kingdom. Edmund and I were both bastard-boys.
Like Lear I wandered around aimlessly with nowhere left to go.
Caesar and I both died by numerous stab wounds to the back.
But Shakespeare never said why
I made my soldiers slice through virgin waves at morning tide.
I watched, waiting from a large rock. I reeked of hatred’s stench,
And wanted something more than to fall prey to such meek satisfaction
That strikes at only small, average warriors. I couldn’t stand to fall
From my own rock and die from daggers of the white man —
I let those half-brothers kill me. I had it coming, running
Them into the earth with orders and arrogance.
Only I could lead our war and shield this home from shame.
As the conspiracy approached sporting clean swords,
I thought, Othello am I: with respect do I die.