Gutter

I’ve had it with holy. Relying on chai latte, negotiating curves of lip, fad gap. I could not change the future so I got very naked, learned early: the only thing I fetch is godless. They want more, pour

down eggs, herb, say everything is better aged. Braille corn fields, ruined underwear. With tits I can never locate all my ribs. I make late night phone calls Where are you!? I say. They are beneath piles

of childhood, sifting through manuscript and Catholic veneer, mid-drift into pop psychology and a drag of wildlife slag. There ought to be laws against penalty. Body clerestory, tiny industry. I fume

with the best of them. Whole cities rise up from sewer, electric mucus. Men brooming the animals, returning lunch trays, tossing maxi pads to public girls and saying, “come.” All of it without receipt.