I won her over the same way
I hunted - loping after the fawn
I wanted to eat, never in a hurry,
making it a game, tiring her out,
nipping at her heels playfully
until eventually she almost wanted
me to break her neck and open her
up like a purse.
With his iPod all the way up, nothing in this
world can touch him. Just over his pulse
is a fresh tattoo- a dotted line and the words
-----Cut Here-----
Grief is a street he skates down. "Hey,
donkey's ass!" He bides his time, sanding
away his fingerprints, wondering how he
could get his assailants in one room.
She's selling CDs on the corner,
fifty cents to any stoner,
any homeboy with a boner.
Sleet and worse - the weather's awful.
Will she live? It's very doubtful.
Life out here is never healthful.
She puts a CD in her Sony.
It's the about the pony
and a pie with pepperoni
and a mom with warm, clean hands
who doesn't bring home guys from bands
or make some sickening demands.
The cold wind bites like icy snakes.
She tries to move but merely shakes.
Some thief leans down and simply takes.
Her next CD's called Land Of Food.
No one there can be tattooed
or mumble things that might be crude
and everything to eat is free,
there's always a big Christmas tree
and crystal bowls of potpourri.
She's weak but still she play one more:
She's on a beach with friends galore.
They scamper down the sandy shore
to watch the towering waves cascade
and marvel at the cute mermaids
who call to her and serenade.
She can't resist. the water's fine.
The rocks are like a kind of shrine.
The foam goes down like scarlet wine.
One cop stands up and says, "She's gone."
The other shakes his head and yawns.
It's barely 10:00, and life goes on.
She knows her life is on the line but, believe it
or not, she's never been so excited!
Her husband's a serial killer, and her bodice is wet
with tears, but there's a chance her brothers
will show up like winning lottery numbers.
Which does she want more - her hair wound
in the maniac's hands and her white white throat bared,
or the sound of boots on marble stairs?
Okay, they were ogre children with little gray teeth,
but they were kids! They didn't do anything, not really.
Sure, when they played, they boiled their dolls then cut
them into bite-sized pieces. But that was make-believe.
Everybody says the moral of the story
is that short guys can be cunning
and brave.
But I think the moral is that children pay
for the sins of their parent. Ask anybody
who hates to go home after school.
Ask the girl whose mother is a drunk
and a whore. Ask the boy whose dad
is doing twenty-five to life.
Our enemy is man with his arrogance and greed.
The woodsman in particular. Destroyer of trees.
Clearer of land. Owner of fire.
While he chops and burns and builds, we terrorize his
wife, surrounding her as she goes for water. We howl
outside his windows half the night, and if that doesn't
drive him away we take him out, leaving just a few
bones so the message is clear.
This is our forest. Perfect before you came.
Perfect again when all your kind is dead.
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