Issue 219, Winter 2016
Some people say sex is like riding a rainbow.
Maybe theirs is.
I say I fall on a grenade each time.
My rainbow-on-a-runway took off practically
Straight up from the infirmary
To reach the thermosphere,
And blew up above Brussels, Paris, etc.—
And here’s the nurse. Nurse!
I had a stroke.
I had another stroke.
I can’t lift my prepuce head from the bed.
Someone said my poison poems
Are flowers someone brought into the room,
Flowers that leave behind a sonic boom.