I plugged the bop with a flent.
When I did, the bop ceded and my story too.
I wanted to bop the bop but couldn't, so
used the flent against intention. Flents
fill the space as well as they can,
which prevents them from full-function
as bops, which never reach potential
as a rule. Qualitatively, were a flent
a bop, it wouldn't work to use it as such.
Still another replacement would be required.
Perhaps the story could come back then,
leapfrogged. Over ourselves, continually.

split the muse

Split the muse -- and you'll find her larking --
blunt by blunt in her laughter rolled
scantily dressed for mourning summer --
ears red and, reader, she is cold.

Spill her blood -- you might find it thicker--
slushy, slushy, cherry for you.
Poetic diction! Potable dilettante!
Doh! Raspberry -- rhapsody -- or just that blue?

my diseased impulses

cast me into unworthy places.
Like Big Bertha. When I am inside her
Bigness, I shouldn't enjoy it, her tinny
waltz her march her batons. Heels. Swords.
But I've swallowed fires, my children--
I've swallowed them too.

Because gender is language, I will
answer your Reflect me with my own
presence. Do you recognize this?
In other words, can you
even see me? I predict another century
before our skins chemically note
each others' signatures in the midst
of their own permeabilities.

What's dramatic about childbirth? No, I’m asking.
Stockholm syndrome. The moment of interest is the moment she asked for something.
She is not you. (A dismissal.)
Monsters are not necessarily unclever. I add, uncleavered.
They watched TV. (Ur-text: not a monster.)
There was some normalcy there. A trike. And the filth?
Why didn’t she try to leave? Second
victimization. Judgment of the passive voice.
She was easygoing, not the kind of girl who would scale a fence to escape.
From where? Antioch. The new Rome. Into the unincorporated
portion of a world peopled (102) with sex offenders.
I know this because of note me the internet note me Meghan’s Law note me the failure of the judicial system to protect us from each other note
me, in other words my self. Parole board. Speak.
Home visitation. Tarps. Probably this
is why she is alive.
Heartwarming. Unbelievably.
They thought of Nancy as their mother. Why did they
even mention an older sister back at the house? It made no sense.
The one, she looked directly at me. A woman noting something wrong.
Like a robot. The directness wrong? The looking? The she-ness?
Very blue eyes, little house on the prairie. No, that was the dresses.
Clinging girls. Slept with me every night, he said, I never
touched them. A clever monster, a clever game of
twist her. Monst her. He monsed her. Who was eaten?
Wait until you hear the whole story, very heartwarming, did I say?
I did some bad things at the beginning. Police say
it was a regular sex-palace. That was the first, the seventies. Cozy. This one
was dressers and dirt and blue tent-shack-sex.
Uncozy, except three. A family though, so cozy. The important thing
is to tell them it’s not their fault. LSD, schizophrenia, God
in a box. Realizing all my nightmares
about what might have happened were true, another mother of another victim.
Her boy four and a half years gone. Her boy become
a procurer. Going on. The damage resurfacing in Antioch this week
because of Rome or God or only a bike.