by Nicole Rago



brown hit me but didn’t cut into me.

I am “smudge” by T. Ernest

with his shaking handshake please take me

home. I understand it’s not for me, it’s for

the circumstance

but can’t stop it [hobble] can’t stop

kitsching on purpose . . . I have taken a nail file

to the numbers on the card . . . 

                                                                   . . . big smiling . . .

Do you know what I know

about having knitting needles for legs

in this collective dream? No, Theodore. Those are my bones

in the gravel powder out front a suburbia

Dairy Queen. I do, I do wish

to move and wash my guts out from under

the slippery rocks. You are living


downstream. The car-washing is TBC [to be

continued] those yellow

suds throwing off the pH make white

stuff come out of me, but I understand

I have left bruise fluid tinny

on the urethane . . . This won’t do.

Sponge-bath me, boar-bristle me,

hard-wax me. I want frictionless

pumping. Refinanced hair and dessert

before disaster. It’s not up to me but I can

say it if I want to . . .  Wonder Bread, Wonder

Woman, wonder what’s

a’cookin . . . Without worrying, I will assure you

a hell made of claws and fangs,

Theodore, where tweezers are

pluckers and sheets are under-covers.


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