“Ted Kazinski,” Poem published by the Park Slope Poetry Project

A shopping cart of fire

urinating in my mouth.

Your marriage.

Hunger every two hours,

volcano hunger.

Your marriage.

Fresh newspaper

smelling like murder.

My poetry.

Black water color

swimming away

under thick white house paint.

A man I lusted for while on too many prescription drugs.

Petroleum spilling into oceans of friends,

them swallowing as I suckle

on my dead mother’s chest,

grasping for your hand in a limousine.

A patronizing psychiatrist.

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