Breakfast With Death

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She sits at the same chair. 8 A.M. Sharp.

Her husband used to order eggs and a piece

Of sour dough toast.

She sits alone now.

Staring at the hard boys

With hair slicked back and knives and daggers

They are the hyena in

The wild

Her solitude is the

Gangrene

She isn’t ready to go.

My Dear

She always worried for my health. She saw a discolored bump perched on my hip bone.
“Is it an std?” She asked.
“No”
“Is it cancer?”
I wasn’t sure, but I remembered I was young so I must be invincible
So I replied
“No. When I was younger, mother was bringing in the groceries and a man approached her with a gun. I was very little and I knew, even then that I was a super hero. So I charged him. He shot me through my pelvis and murdered my mother.”
“your mother’s still alive.”
Fucking ay.
“Then I don’t know.”
We dry humped until we were both raw and walking like we had been horseback riding for too long.

She’s my wife now and that was long ago. On nights when I’m feeling waggish I make her kiss it goodnight. On the nights she watches one of her flicks, where the guy falls for the girl, she uses tongue.
I like it when she sucks on my boil
But it pops. Hah
wriggling
long pink
squirming
It emerges
A look of disgust across her face
She pulls out a little piece of earth from her mouth, twisting at fingers end
And throws it into the dirt of her garden placed under the window sill
I always said I was an environmentalist.

Meow

I’m not interested in being your house cat
I don’t have to calm down
Before I talk to anyone

To show you what it’s like to feed off of barflies like air
I have a bowl out back
Printed on the side
It reads
“Wifey”

That’s where you belong
For there isn’t enough room in this bed
For all of us
And you’re a few pages back
On the waiting list