Tis’ The Season
It’s Christmas time. Pigeons kill pigeons
silent in the night, spilling righteousness
on church steps. A sacrifice, soft and bloody,
right beside sculpted Mother Mary’s
graphic placenta. Watch the blood soak
into the concrete, drizzling off like silky
smooth cranberry sauce.
But we’ve come next door for soy sauce,
entering the restaurant to watch gum
under table top chew spiders. Excuse me,
Aunt Martha, to the intimate mint green
bathroom walls of Chinese Vegan buffets
who know me delicately more so. Undressing
me. Licking my skin clean of clean, suckling
open-toed shoes, mold eating gold
right off painted toe. You cross
my mind here as the lipstick stained kiss
on the toilet seat. Look both ways,
don’t be hit by that nasty train
of thought. You never liked mine.
An old woman bursts in, broken
lock bedlam. She drools the piss
right out of her mouth at the sight
of such intimacy. Sinks can’t wash fake
octopus crumbs off fingertips, but they’ll
hold your hand all nice and well. Go back
to the table. Watch a spider blow
a pink gum bubble, bursting and ripe
with low-hanging legs. I eat spiders
who eat gum who eat spiders because that
was my last piece. The table top underside
is now clean of clean of clean.
