I spent the day clearing genitals
from the vegetable garden. Shells of
genitals, dried out, sun cracked
like when a first meeting suddenly
becomes your last.
I don’t have a normal name.
My wallet is filled with these goons
who cuss from waiting tables
all day, who come frozen to the mind
when I demand a new brown belt,
I demand a spoiling new leader.
The attraction to small crowds.
The fear of people scattering in all
directions. These, taken together,
belly in the black rabbit, the orthodox
jamming of language, the cute who supply
the cute. Yesterday, I bought meat
off the radio. I worked in my garden and thought
when a cavern can no longer be a cave.
Ask why. Be the widespread answer for now.