Issue 211, Winter 2014
I want to write like a man, probing
my glitchy mind like it’s the rarest orchid.
But I’m cowed,
impoverished from cursing out,
swallowed in datamine’s bowels, inter-
changeable as lint;
Ruddy Mongol: rant you can’t
wrest it off, Wall-Face, since
the angry Asian is as threatening as an angry
So becalm yourself, salaam into this seat,
and let’s give head to legend’s balding heads!
Can’t hear you, literati’s backbencher,
heir to nothing
in particular, you moot?
Pounding head, then baby’s breath of lights.
Liqueur of cold tears with a coin of crème.
Grind, sip, grind, slug, grind: