Slowly, under my clothes, as I finger fucked America’s rifle, I could feel myself transforming into a woman.
Throb
A tired throb under
My right eye especially
Tells me not much else can
Be added here; in the thick of it
I yearn for a time when too much
Work meant the clack of a lighter
And a typewriter at a desk
Where ashtrays and coffee rings
Ran in thickets around sheafs of papers,
Looseleaf and meaningless the same
Way repeating these tasks
(I am learning to sew)
Yields no value save
What image you might conjur
In an imagination designed
By the papers to think
Sewing is like slipping a slender
Phallus through
Again and again
Just like hammering at the keys
Is a fingertip fucking,
The small enameled dish
Of Each Royal Key
Receiving its sore cock…
But no, no,
No this is not the case;
This work is no slipping
Of pussies and penises
No metaphor or role;
I am learning to sew
Back together a sheet-cape
Birthday boy jumped down
In from a tree, and his
Mother, gender opposite,
Like a chain-smoking man
At the coffee, clicking and clacking
Out the excuse note at
Her dapper machine,
The son in slumber,
No fucks for a week
Just now we know
The poet in us
Has finally taken flight.
I stepped closer
I stepped closer. “I am a nothing,” I said, slipping my index finger into the barrel of the rifle, and slowly gliding it in and out.
Methodically, like a cow…
“Bullshit. Nonsense,” said America. He pulled away part of the bib of congealed cheese which had grown out from his collar while he had been eating, put it in his mouth, and chewed, methodically, like a cow, while eying me suspiciously. He swallowed, sucked on a fingertip, and spoke. “I just ate the fee. The fee is in me.”
A Fee for Meee
I said, “The Queen won’t pay a fee for meee…”
Killing You
“Killing you will increase the balance in my checking account by a gentleman’s premium, my hippy friend…”
“…I’m a nothing.”
“It’s of questionable value whether killing me will change anything. I’m a nothing.”
