The Legend of Arthur Rimbaud

Long ago, through the ancient sands of time,
it was prophesied that a boy, gifted in rhyme

and meter, would rise above his earthly age
and begin a new era, dispensing his sage

words to all that sought his wisdom.
It would be a different society, a new kingdom.


I. On the Day of October 20, 1854

Arthur was born in a manger
his father wasn't present and it couldn't get much stranger,
but I heard he was the savior.
The written word flowed through him
and he was dangerous
came to us
with the trust
in his bust
and the muscle to hustle apostle
of the written word.

"Have you heard he isn't human?
Hmmm?
That wise men brought him nothing,
but rum and cumin?"

I'm not saying his hearing is supersonic,
that is body is nothing short
of anatomic,
that he didn’t lose, live, love, breathe,
and smoke the chronic,
but he did it all with such ease.
Is it ironic

that a baby,
confined inside of a womb,
would be predestined and would save me?
I was thinking that just maybe
the people he will save will shun him, misbehave, “he

should not
be appointed
to the throne”

“When he's through,
we’ll be here all alone”

“I hear you can make a magic powder from his bones”

Uhhhhhhhhh
Such thoughts are for the fools and for the weak.
-Hold up.
The child speaks,

“Goo”
“Goo”
“Ga”
“bppphhhhhit”
“ah”

“No, I’m just playin with you”

"Five seconds out of the womb
and I’m killin’ it.
Give me ten years and I,
I will rock your shit.

From the look up on your faces
I can tell my introduction,
was a little too abrasive.

Here,
Let me break it down for you,
smoothly.

I just got here,
but I’m on the level.
You all on edge,
I think your ledge is beveled.

Think it’s getting better,
pleasant weather,
and the feather
in your cap
is rhythm;
that same hymn
they’ve sung the last
five hundred years
or so.
It’s gotten old.
Contemporary culture has just got to break the mold.
But

does it take
a messiah to try
a form you’ve never heard?
No, all poets
can sow this
if they have got the sacred word,

but sometimes it takes
years just to break through
so you
got to
have some faith in your boy king.

I’m not saying it will work for you all:
the short, tall,
the big, small.
We just have to hold till they fall down.

And when they’re falling,
the fall,
is of their way of life,
which is no wonder it’s under
the threat
of my preverbal knife.

I think I’ve pandered enough
and slandered those in trouble.
My latin masters demand
I go to bed;
on the double."

(whispered by the prophet)
This is the prophet
come to have the last word.
I didn't drop it,
but I feel I must be heard.

I didn't make it on my own due feet.
I pled the muses, “use me
and I'll write your meet and greet.

But as the golden child sleeps
I hear my conscience, conscious,
and I don't deserve this wreath.