Mao lit out for the tan Yanan Hills, surviving on conviction and rice gruel. I only came to meet Tu Fu and Li Po, those snickering drunks in their Tang boat, spluttering their poems on West Lake, drifting aimless toward dawn's mottled skin, plum blossoms caught in their beards. Forever an exile, I settled in America, where natives are aliens but hate to admit it. We have jeweled lawns and bread lines. God-fearing men plan wars to end all wars.
Legend says they toppled overboard, tried to cling to each other, drowned in a net of stars.
Legends lie beautifully to heaven. Look at the world and you want to scream.