This is where, in the poem,/I say that I am descended/from these motherfuckers
A Ferret, a Stoat, and a Polecat//go into a bar. Wait, it isn’t that kind/of poem.
Is she a victim or a villainess?/ You remember only a storm of swords and flame, /a flash of the white of winter, /the blue of a dragon’s eye.
She doesn’t know what the snow does/
to her pipes. But you do.
a lynch mob. a defense mob. a gunshot. hate. a gunshot. hate. a deputizing of hundreds.
All meat is tenderized
the same way. /Good meat
is beat lifeless before you eat.
lamps of summer in galaxy gray, we touch & go
I have a blind date with destiny:/
no doubt I won’t be recognized.
The question I asked/
every time I tried the online Tarot reading site,/
hoping again and again for some ancient truth/
to blow up like a billboard in living color...
She reminds me of my Italian cousins. Square brick houses on tight suburban streets with Madonnas-in-bathtubs on front lawns.