She disgraced me when she told me to brush my teeth
But she is dead
OD’d on the juice I used to call Jesus
He is in a chicken mask
Milky features and sculpted cheek
Motor skills muffled by the feathers
He swears he can breathe
I rush to the haiku lesbians door
5 or 7 syllable women
they allow me in but only to watch
I filter the air with my free verse presence
I hold the magician’s stare deep in concentration
I seem to be ruining the trick with my belief in wisps of alabaster haunting
the gingerbread house crying when I take a bite.
I hated her when he died
And approved of her death that followed
But somehow they’re holding hands now
Inside a baby nebula in the far stretch of my mind
I forgive them.
A friend once asked me if I was a junkie
as if it were a job
a question like: "What do you do for a living?"
and I stared her down mechanically answering,
"No, I just shoot up sometimes."
As if full and part time usage could beg to differ with each other
and were fighting over the sometimes lengthy "cat scratches"
on my arms
It never really did make me feel any better
It just made me buy more long-sleeved shirts
Copyright © 2005 Julie Mazza