fur crusting over with blood,
entrails pouring from a gap
in its gut, the cat laid supine
with an indiscernable
emotion frozen on its face.
georgia watched from behind us,
crossing-uncrossing her arms.
Is he dead yet, are you done?
i thought so, but prodded it
to be sure. some blood seeped out;
it lay still as the surrounding air.
Gentler with the knife, she said.
i responded, Why’s it matter,
it’s dead, you know? and stabbed it.
‘*** you’re gonna make me cry!
No use crying over it,
i said; she cried for a while.

"If i was killed in prison, that would be a blessing right now."
-Jeffery Dahmer

november twenty eighth, he prayed
to god, to mom, to sun and shade,
gave thanks to all the boys he ate;
november twenty eighth, he laid
and thought till his last ***** breath:
"well, this has been my life, i guess,"
as scarver beat him blissfully
into his deliquescing death.

he thought of all the things he did
while down came scarver's metal bar
(and not because he'd killed those kids,
but '*** his pranks had gone too far).
the guards went home that night and slept
while someone, somewhere, soundly wept.

burning baby
bodies; bathing
books. surfing
crackhouse couches;
catching *****,
getting guns
and gonorrhea.

we used to be "in love".
you yank accusations
out your *** like tampons.

i throw jack daniels:
bottles at your head,
and up on the ride home.

my lawyer flirts with me.
*******, *******, *******,
we're having an affair.

i asked my mom what's death
what's *** and **** and debt
she boiled me an egg,
said not to worry yet.

if your dad tells you 'get your grades up, son'
beat that nerd to death with his own copy
of moby ****;
what a square.

if your dog's breathing sounds like a vacuum
and strangers look at him with pained remorse,
give him more food,
go ahead,

but if you want to play the clarinet
to your hungry heart's content,
well dear, no one
WANTS TO HEAR IT

routine as morning rooster's call,
death stares us down unblinkingly,
with the faint sting of alcohol.

without much willingness to brawl,
virility, agility,
or much of anything at all,

how could we be bound by thrall?
how far goes durability?
where has it gone, our wherewithal?

forgetful trees lose leaves in fall -
our lovers leave consistently,
routine as morning rooster's call.