there’s a mountain of a man
by the rembrandt, his eyes hung
open, mouth hung open,
to absorb the fumes of oil rising
like skin-warmth from the canvas.
the painting is done in dark,  
and the mix of brown-black
has a name: rembrandt mud.
it is not the warm leather
of the man’s trench coat,
or as pungent as the odor
that steams from his excess flesh.
it is earthy and underfoot,
a struggle caught between paints,
a man on the edge of
blotting out the light.

I’m the anti-anti, downing 40
Celexa like candy, and brandy is
mouth wash and burning. Side effects may
include: tachy, coma, loss of life.

Dr. U of Penn ***** his wife while I
overdose by his bushes. I promise
not to *****—and I won’t key your blue
Beemer, or let slip the details either

of your standard missionary pose. I’ll
just glimpse your face through the curtain gap,
your wrinkles in the throes of ******,
and have a seizure on your sidewalk, Doc.

I like my violence organized
in a clean pattern of trading fists:
roll from left to right—jab twice—
then check the kick.

Three men brawled on my corner
this morning, while I drank my coffee
(2 creams) and stared. “Hell no!” said
a woman, in objection.

There was nothing neat in that violence,
only 2 guys slugging a third
onto the ground, back-down,
so hard his shirt button snapped open.

He did not cover his face
or roll from booted kicks.
I lost sight of him beneath the
flail of untrained limbs.

like virginie—
despentes, you know—
the null of detente
a wellspring of womanly violence.

mother purses her
lips at me: “be
a lady.” (but
how can i when
i’m angry?)

later: de-escalate
bruises with bare
skinfuls of ice.
i picked a fight with myself
and lost.

I know what you see because I feel her,
a phantom girl ****** in my silhouette.
Your head turns, eyes heavy, body hunching,
hips swaggered, lips sloppy, hands hungry. I’m
like money, or the public restroom stall
some kid carves his initials into, in
ownership. A proclamation, a
permanent I was here. Is that how you’ll
make your mark on the world, through my body?
“Hey little lady, hey ****.” I roll
my eyes and keep walking, hot with an urge
to shatter that girl you mistake me for.
For a moment, let me fantasize: an
elbow to the nose, knee to the *****,
body hook, spinning back fist. I see you
gasping on the sidewalk, your leer gummed up,
******, and the vision of such violence
thrills me.