like a menstruating pomeranian,
very much in need of absorbent pants,
the fluid clear and viscous elaborates
a sticky patch on my hip. am i satisfied?
is she? yeah, i guess so, and maybe not quite,
respectively. love. did i mention that the babies
are beautiful and sweet tempered, with long toes
and long eyelashes? would you like to have one,
to keep as your companion
thru the many years past september?
so sweetly do you pull me sometimes,
i could swear that you would.
be sure to stretch out that vaccination schedule,
if you should choose to vaccinate at all.
this is your child’s body.
bring banjos and banners
and a positive attitude,
and prepare for the celebration to come,
at the end of one fine day in which
the editors of the newly-liberated new york
times do rejoice to boldly print
‘the controlled demolition of world
trade center, building number seven,’
as if this were an actual event that
took place at 5:20 in the afternoon,
on the eleventh day of september,
in the year two thousand and one, anno domini.
though wearied by another lonely repetition,
so simple it truly is to write those words on
this page. for the presses of the new york times
to print these few, along with many millions more words,
it is the selfsame process of deliberation, editors,
on an industrial scale, but no different.
and other pressures though there be,
none that would negate the laws of physics, ye fucks.
you there, asleep at the new york times,
it is time for you to print one honest article
about the defining event of our age,
that we might begin this discussion in earnest,
that a poor monk might eat an apple in peace.