“Can’t talk to myself cuz mama said don’t talk to strangers” – Lil’ Wayne
i ask the reader to pass the bluntedge of the chip bowl to the butchersin the love seat the familiar guac& salsa to the executioner biting
his nails through his leather maskwith the rest of the hangmenraising the guillotine at the windowin lieu of venetian blinds to watch the room
light up with their slow chantifhedieshedies ifhedieshedies& me too my pen raised to my left handa sestina etched to the skin like barbed wire.
on the screen is The Boy who looks like mesits like me watches in horroras his arm goes to wilt with the three line envoiifhedieshedies ifhedieshedies & me again
this time a sonnet to the neckfilling The Boy’s throat till it a wadof dust. a cyst of stunned rock. whatever builds in the corner of any question left to linger
in the road like a failed flaglike thunder mummedby its one time use like The Boy screaming through my words odes catching heat in The Boy’s ears
burned to nothing. his lobes like ashes spilling out my name.