"Becoming Somebody Else," I'm not
going to do much chit chat between poems.
Some of the people here know me anyway.
"Your list of victims, dear God, like rows of sharp little teeth
have made me crazy.
Look, I have crushed my poor balls for you.
I have kissed the blank pages.
Drunk the pissy chalice water and thrown up.
Dear God, your rabbits.
Dear God, your big whistle.
Do you know how awful it is trying
to plug the holy wound in my bowel with wrong addresses?
Listen, let us have death back when we need him.
The lost mother of bliss will sing in the back seat for you.
Let us come back with our own SS,
and our own banks this time.
And for the corpses, compilers to start out.
Dear concern, chosen esteem, sufferer, warm gloves.
God, our bodies, ladders.
Look, aren't we lovely too this way?
Look, our blood too, touch us.
Is it horrible?
Touch us."