He said my thighs were boyish, big, said less to crush you with. He claimed my body was a roadmap. Complicated to read without clear-cut direction, without consciousness, I turned over like a cheek & found a cig-burn on my back’s blade. He said I was a hot one, crush of filtered, photo, semen’s spring.

Splayed across the front seat, cock blocked view of the oncoming road. When he pulled out & over on the shoulder, I skirted strangers’ questions. O ring cheap scar smoke eye gallop tripping over six eyes, sex legs, crushed mouth, nip slip, evidence, so many tongues, so many

*** *** ***

Tongues. So many tongues to strip from shoes, so many strings to take out bagged possessions. Ward-Robe, white gown, white sheet, white page, in the ward we ghost inhale & ghost exhale the thought if only I was King here with my idle hands pulled on the shoulder waiting for headlights to flick or brain-fire to be put out.

*** *** ***

We put out & we live by promises of rings & fingers in the right spot good job G strings are prohibited inside the ward no strings but men here laugh say fuck me baby as I beg the nurse to leave me nightingales say here say have a Quiet Room they cough up a cement cell they tell me here come cry in do not threaten, call for help.

I call for help over & over on the land line ask for the extension of the agents of the arm of god my King says firecrotch. Says firearm. Says fired, fired, fired. I fire all the men with reclaimed wood & hobblehorse. Then, some patriarchal god sweeps in & tells them No, I got your back.

If I turn back take back buy back tonight I won’t weep won’t

*** *** ***

Weep))

My iris is a waterbed to poke a hole in

like a condom would be broken leak of fluid

am I really

just a boy turned over like a mouth a stone inside the park that we flip over to find some worms in there

the wormhole is under my body’s stone brim like a furnace

flip me over & I speak so many tongues

*** *** ***

My hobby: dress I kill & later tell it sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry this my neckline con- fessional why don’t you scoop out every inch of fabric of my being / my lost sheep little boy blue ball blue in the iris my ringed pupil yes we clouded judgement vision this here number you can call or even number you can be perhaps statistic call tonight if you are lonely me myself

my hot line & my vein the roofie wafer body worm hole wound-well-open Baptists dipped their hands in me said O my idol-grrrl my idol how many licks years does it / will it / take & does it take the edge off take the edge off of a blotter / white the black-out

body out / to take communion tonight my bible curled to ash a snake’s tongue splitting at the seams I locked the four men in the fire though I only know the names of three. Despite, for every crime I see Abednego won’t burn.