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.

Categories: Poetry • Tags: Park Slope Poetry Project, Ted Kazinski