I Am So in Love I Grow a New Hymen
Terrorists of the last
decade. Anarchists who fled
with my heart thudding on the back
bumper of a flatbed truck,
Nelson Algren impersonators.
Joe Hill detonators. Los-mas-
chingones-de-los-mas-chingones-
politically-correct-Marxist-tourists/voyeurs.
Olympic gold, silver, bronze love-
triathlons and several blue
ribbon, runner-ups to boot.
Forgot, forgotten, forget.
Past tense and no regrets.
No doubt you’re Villa
and I’m Pershing’s dizzy troops.
No doubt I’m eucalyptus and you
a California conflagration. No doubt
you’re eucharist. Euclidean geometry.
World War II’s Gibraltar strait,
the Chinese traders of Guangzhou.
Zapatistas breakfasting at Sanborn’s.
Sassoferrato’s cobalt blue.
Museo Poldi Pezzoli’s insurance rate.
Gaudi’s hammer against porcelain plates.
Ay, daddy, daddy, I
don’t give a good goddamn. I
don’t give
a good
god
damn.
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