Alphabet City

The Oracle reached across me
scented of myrrh and peppermint
her hair brushing my face
as she leaned in and whispered
hushed, seductive, wizened:

Carlos, my love, you must know
that across this earth, nay
the universe large, we are living
in the age of the asshole.

Chagall 2015

I am intrigued by her etcetera,
the ellipsis she dangles without
modifier, the comma of her petulant
being, the subtle contour of her fonts,
the page she splays open while she sings
hymns to the bare branch, the storm
she incites with mere thought. She needs
no blessing nor permission to spin
maniacally as she pleases, a dervish,
a twirl.

© Chagall ∞

time to go free-form
like that goddess
what’s her name

waxing Prozac-ic
sipping on juleps
chain-smoking discount
cigarettes

hurling lightning
from fingertips polished and trimmed

with just enough twist to her rap
to convince you
that there’s actually someone home
just maybe

charms serpents for deep-sea custody
of children undoubtedly
unshod unfed uncared for

and oh my god does she love the applause!
especially when she feigns aplomb
or pretends she can orgasm
at will on demand

as if these things really mattered

She’s a woman-child
hear her whimper sputter
and fall
over

broken heels
over
backwards

over
and over

and over and done

she rides mountains and waves
with a trident in hand

snacking on brains
and deep-fried testicle

defies the real gods
this self-deemed deity

on a diet
of doritos
and daughters

(you heard me right – she would eat her own young!)

alights somehow always
in open…