He was a tapeworm

his sister had a bad perm
sitting on her head,

edge of the bed
in a knife sliced
corridor of light. These thoughts,

that leaned like weak trees
in a cutting breeze.

These thoughts
that we're never straight more
a child's hurricane scribble.

A mental ball of twine collecting clutter

and when the cobra struck

I thought of you
naked,

ready to **** the venom

or offer the antidote.

The misery and turbulence,

the fear of being hunted by the anonymous faces

of a South American meat packing conglomerate.