I.
Run my thumb from my hip
down my thigh
to pinch the stringy
wriggling tail and take
some named muscle
but I don’t call it
I clench it to
push this little rat
out my cunt.
It comes with a pop; it’s
brown ruddy blood-soaked
body dangles under
my hand then lays in
some toilet paper:
my left hand.
I feel its warmth
and laugh because
it’s gross & beating
but inanimate
& always dead.
II.
All the little maggot boys
imbedded in his skin
worm their way out the dead rat.
He dreams them holding
a trial in which
his family testifies
against him– so
helpless & abandoned
when his long lost dream aunt
grabs his hand to comfort him
then runs her hand down
from his hip to his thigh.
III.
Inside this moment
the living & dead converge
in the minds of the schizophrenics
meeting down at the docks
telling,
“Don’t let your left hand know
who your right hand is in.”
I feel ashamed becuase I am
the full body without organs:
unproductive, sterile,
unengendered, unconsumable,
and just incredibly
bored. I want to see
everything connected,
one full body machine, want to
see it like these
institutionalized
father figures.
