this bored housewife
plots death by poison on odd days
mornings only
when the kids are gone
and the crock pot's set to high
cuts the hair from your head during the full moon
binds it with duct tape to a piece of ham
while the street is dark
and the dirt is warm
handles
rather than controls
the desire for witch-inspired zombie sex
urgharghblah
this bored housewife
has a recipe book
that's time-locked
with a tequila switch
she's just waiting
waiting
waiting
til she can't anymore
my epic poem is a list of groceries
sorted by things I can buy
generic and not
the hero is a box of Pop-Tarts
because let's face it
nobody else can get the filling right
you get the picture?
next to my bed is
the stepford wives
ear plugs
and a basket of lubes, lotions
and creams
for not having sex
for not looking younger
for not healing
the hole in my head
Note to the Better Half
I miss the smell of mass deviation
of latino santa sweat
and artie's chronic n gun oil
I miss the pulse of drunk transit at 3am
black hookers in white wigs
and white pimps in purple satin
I miss the homeless junkies
and the rest stop houses
with sound systems
too big to fit
and fuckers too drunk to shoot, not fuck
I miss the rain that flooded my car
the stink that followed
and the body parts that washed up
yes, I miss being in love
on the run
and even pawning my only diamond
someday soon they'll be a note void of tears
and dinners in the icebox
that freeze a lot better than I do.
