Polly

In case of necessity, hang your husband.
Your pistol might misfire, but prevent.
It will happen, poor turtle!
Your slow shoes will be suspicious; sluggish,
lame,
dragging the accused on a rope.

What a shame personal bravery is. Suspecting
everything
but its own heart. Much better a
widow than
a former, I suppose.

So, just in case, keep rope.
Mary or
Heather or
Anne will lay weight on
your fool. Pretty wretch!

Then wine,
then pistol,
biting cries then
silence.
She can’t escape without her eyes!

He means
to bury himself deep
in your bed,
where you may find happiness
tomorrow,
but

the rope!
A whore will steal everything but!

My Dad And His Dad

My father is ham,
sliced on the floor. Pulsating.

He is dying.
Without eyes,
without feet,
hands,
liver,
or lungs.

I watch his respiration’s as
they slip, so slowly,
away.

Now is the time for tears,
but where could they be??

He already died in a dream.
When I was young, I watched
his casket get planted in
the ground.
My grandmother was headsick!!
Father was not a seed.

He was a musician,
and a bum with a harmonica.
A bastard!

He watched his father die, also.
His father was not ham.
He was on a rope,
dangling
like a pinata for a child’s birthday.