4/25/23

I dreamt
There was
An author
Too tall
For his bed
Who wrote
Stories
About
Grieving bunnies
It was Mother’s Day
We were
In Europe
Which was
A ship
Looking for
A good coffee
Which was
Impossible
My dad
Kept hounding me
To get ready, get ready
Arrange my
Wig
And paint myself
Pink
But I was
Busy
Looking for
A spot
To read
Eileen Myles
Said
         It’s so manly
         To visit
         This Great Man
         Dying.
         Because who
         Would the
         Great Woman
         Even be.
I was
The Great Man
Writer,
The too-tall
Tortured-teased awake
Bunny grieving
Author but
I was also
         The Great Woman
The pink-skinned
Blonde she-demon
That crawled up
From soil
Fertilized
With Jesus’s blood
At Calvary Hill
Then I
Woke up
And drank coffee
For real
And read
I am
The bare minimum
Like septic safe
Toilet paper
O Young shitter
Young warrior
Young sunburnt
Genius crapper
On the throne.
O Young
Turd
Herder
Of
Poetry.