the matrix is frakking
earth’s curvature
perpendicular
to my drumless wail.
i have ten days
to learn how to throw
lightning—
you have to peel it off your
chest first.
the rest of the verse
will be squandered
on red wine and humans
our delusion
muted
on God’s mantelpiece
a black and white photo
frame—
freeze—the anticipation
makes me nauseous.
house me in the museum
next to the Hope Diamond.
there is nothing natural
about our history—
why do men buy it?
white bread sliced bread
baker’s dozen
and we’re still complaining—
the matrix is fracturing.
i like to kiss you forcibly
in front of stodgy old
people
shake the table
scatter glass on murder
make matchsticks
out of Civil Rights
men on their bikes
on their way to work
pedal pedal pedal pedal
pedal
stem step stomp on my
petals
crush me
a dry sunflower
wreath of marigold
hangs from my rearview
precipitous rain fall
up the canyon
every time I drive
to see the old doctor wise
at Shovel Ranch
free tarot reading.
can you teach someone how to
speak?
Salve Regina,
O Maria
Mary Magdalene,
Saint Margaret’s Catholic
Church
on Main Street Sunday
pavement.
i don’t want to close my
ideas
and bow my head to pray—
i would lift my eye
out of socket,
burn my pockets,
red thread and whiskey.
Mother Mary, do not forsake
me,
pray for me, now, and at the
hour
of my first-born’s
conception—
nine months to be born still
would be my righteous
come-uppance
for all the good Godly men
i felt sail the Horn of
Africa
for the Indian Colony,
American tyranny—
o modern imperialism
why can’t you leave me?
i relinquish all ownership
carry the responsible weight
that is mine as woman to
bear
in nomine Patris
et Filii
et Spiritus Sancti
Gabriel tears off
his blue button down
in the stage lights—
where are his hands now,
Mother?
we don’t have time
for my words here
not in this gallery
not in this hall
of fogart
and fine art—
who says?
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