Dena Rash Guzman

space pours wisdom into my brassiere

Space pours wisdom into my brassiere 

into flesh, ears, onto my face, that pretty thing. 

I’m full of space. I don’t live in time.

I forget  commerce, like obligation. 

But I know what’s true 

Every monster is doing murder,

Monsters guarded 

by mercenaries of commerce,

gatekeepers of obligation,

Magistrates of time. 

We are a disaster, my friend. 

Don’t let them shit on our tiny parades. Don’t you shit, 

you’re  men, not circus beasts. Come on. Do you need training? 

I own stilettos, warlords. Come on. On the floor. NOW. 

There is a Death Star in my bra.