Jeff Alessandrelli

“A bad boy is a good boy with a sad story.”—Mac Wellman

Certainly I’ve torn starlings apart

with my bare hands,

while smoking a cigar

watched a pack of ravenous wasps

methodically inhale a horse’s head    

until only remained

that glorious desecration. 

Color always wins.

Color wins always.

Color always wins.

Color wins always

but some blood lasts

long past

midnight’s red.

Clockwork,

when I was an abortionist

I used to whiten my teeth

every 3rd Thursday of the month.     

In the summer when it’s bright out, 

flesh flowering everywhere

in sight,

I miss that job.

At my back the sun

flaws against

the evergreen grove  

like some

fore-

suffered

pre-

destination

and I’m suddenly fussy.         

Surely my mother loved me

too much or never enough.

Get back. 

How

matters

more

than

what.