That’s the type of womb that I want to marry.
N Bonaparte
I want to make one thing clear: it all starts
with the downstairs, the potential lap dance
from the widow from Albuquerque. Lacking sea brine
and the heft from an obsolete pulley, most things
become dull, underused, as if sunshine and rapture
are things to be mocked? A piecing of the left lip
is not for you. My lesbian daughter calls: Everything in Utica
stays the same—shithole weather, blue laws:
We all circle answer E, the last resort of idiots.
Midgets are taller than dwarfs according to my neighbor.
I reply: Firemen like it hot. Josephine laughs. You are not
the first, or second, her pet cockatoo screeches. Nothing that
stays stays put. Say it better: Everything
that will change will change
back to its first caged shape. And here
the great man, Emperor Me, stands, pomegranate in hand,
estranged father to the King of Rome, guilty of leading
droopy generals into humdrum wars, exiled to Elba,
serving up platters of cured meat to Greek tourists.
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