(I am standard size, I contain multiple tubes.)
I am a victim of my parents
and a conduit of ancient rituals
sifted from a bloody creek.
I lack more
Inner Resources than you
I have always wanted to say I this much.
And yay! though I surf through the alleys
of identity theft
I will follow no pagan
for the nation of dogs is within them.
Notice what I won’t edit.
I act how in God’s eye I am.
I loudly proclaim
the utter success of my vibes
to seem employable again
and means-tested and on-time.
My heart. I’m sorry.
You know you can hear it.
It hurts like this when I recall
why we don’t censor poets
who cannot rhyme.
I rhyme.
I lie.
A lady collapsed today
and still I lie.
I, too, dislike it.
But I need no prompt.
I like all humans adore
a femme top who adores a Fascist.
I write to young poets,
you must change your life
insurance policy and billable services.
Reid Kurkerewicz is a writer from the shores of Lake Michigan. He lives in Brooklyn and hosts a monthly poetry reading at Unnameable Books. He has a tattoo of a cube.
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