I reaffirm my transformation
the hot-blooded wish to blow this nation
like the wolf of the three pigs
I get my inspiration
from stars being the sky’s wig
he spoke and all the intelligence in the room
was sucked away in a cognitive vacuum
then he puked out “truths” manufactured
in Tennessee sweatshops
by homeschooled children
making that phone call home
daddy where are you
is this the right number
It’s supposed to ring the old phone
How often do grave injustices make for great documentaries
can we all take a moment to express our disgust that 33 prisoners
and 7 cops were executed by the State of New York with endorsements
from Albany and the White House of course if you don’t know your state
capitals Albany doesn’t mean anything to you
Just because it is in your genes, doesn't
mean it isn't difficult. They say you can
bend hell, they say you are a mud puppy.
We know that scarring slows down your
process, but doesn't stop it. All together.
Yet both are men separately.
Ongoing magic. Broad topsyturviness.
Slow, merciless.
A new one is coming: almost perfect.
I swallow it.
It’s not even hopeless.
Not vicious.
Serves the absence.
Delivers the unnecessary.
I am the stronger, the unprotected
Tough as a woman, austere.
Delicate as a man, fragile, gentle.
she cajoles you to follow
the scent on the bodies
of every other women
do you recoil—on all?!
(Sharon Stone swaps her legs.
She might catch up with me.)
Did I run ahead? How reckless.
Do I want life along with so many
conditions, me who is so defenseless.
My otherself stares before the mirror
and pushes through another domain:
A few lap dances may fit in: I love it.
The way all these witches kill each other!
How jealous they are because of me!
Can’t take it anymore. This distillate is too raw to me.
The beast wins out of beauty.
The scale goes off balance.
Let’s say: I’ll tell you. Let’s say: You’ll listen.
My dearest!
You congregator!
How should I use you?
Where am I in my body?
Without a body? I don’t know. Imaginary blue
like an imaginary sky.
They’re hanging in rich clusters.
He’d hide in one cluster, but
someone knows who he really is.
He sticks to her body,
pulls his weight to her, in his body,
He’s tense inside her. He sticks to her.
Yet she never laid an eye on me ever.
Her place is in a peep show
Where she’d enjoy the sight
alone without stakes.
When I was beautiful with hate and around-around / When
I was beautiful with hate and the implanted heart of the Snowqueen and I still
wasn't absolutely his / When I was beautiful with joy and around-around
To be a sad empty vase
to be a withered flowergirl in a vase
to be a tiny microphone
to be a crawl upon a shoulder
He tries to come, in vain.
He jerks me off
as if I were a tired
personal object. I imagine
the rest.
Then came the odors.
The badly installed roots.
As corpus delicti.
On the operating-table.
Wandering tired lady aristocrats
Baronesses choked by their own shrivelled hair
Mannerism rococo Art Nouveau Baroque
Gothic laceneck serieses. Nothing but foolish
Young ladies.
Should I presume mine inside it?
Or does it reflect its soul onto me?
Can it be otherwise? Who knows.
She seemed fidgety
they said
when she was first revivified.
Did she want that I wonder.
Act natural. Thrift shop for used clothes
by the pound. The colored smell
of poverty is leading the way
How many women!
How much time you’ve been given.
How many borrowed charms have been shattered around.
All we’d need is such a power in the hands of a compulsive
narcissistic megalomaniac who worships himself
knowing he’s not good enough, so he must
distract himself by rejecting even the thought
of right and wrong, forcing the world to comply
As I dip my mind in paint and write
a colourful and creative muse
visits my canvas to illuminate
it like a starry starry night
The figure announced
That he was the spirit
Of Jack Daniels
And had a message
For Sam Adams.
Was it even plausible to think
with that figure and that face,
Marilyn Monroe could succeed
in 1950 as something more
than the girl on the subway grate,
Having shortness of breath and chest pain,
I thought ‘heart attack’, but
no
only arterial heart disease,
same as killed my father
We wink at the crooks, our remnant like that
anvil we keep tossing each other, our
residue like saluting. We clutch the
banner of a warrened world whose tunnels,
unsolvable, incarcerate, swelter,
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