Tags
britches, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Federico Garcia Lorca, fuck-marry-kill, i love the butch in you, i love the femme in you, Poetry, sonnet
“Millay-Lorca-Kerouac,” I announce.
Driving to Flint we play Fuck-Marry-Kill.
“Edna?” you doubt. “Look at this ass. I bounce
when I strut” — I show off my tight Goodwill
britches, crotch frayed — “and when I’m on all fours.”
I love your truck with its [Off-road Princess]
[NDN Grrlz, please] and [My Pussy Roars]
decals. “Edna loved queer boys. She’d hit this.”
“Federico?” “Love my bambino.” “Jack?” “Hate
Jack; the white crayon of art.” “A huge sack
of limp cocks?” “Yes, literature’s eight dollar
haircut.” You laughed. I like your laugh. Irate
raving aside, you’re a blessing: laid-back,
hep, steps beyond she and he, his and her.
