I write to know you’re wrong. I write like John Wayne Gacy was a marauding clown. I write like how John Curtis Holmes masturbates. I write like how Billie Eleanora Harris Holiday sings “Strange Fruit”. I write exactly how Henry Charles Bukowski got whiskey dick. I write like how Lizzie Andrew Borden swung her axe. I write like the one whispering voice in the back pew of the Sanctuary not having to compete with the loudspeaker voice from the pulpit. I am the one true Poet laureate. Richard Wagner foretold my arrival in 1849. I am the avatar a Sundancer attempted to awaken. My words will haunt you in your slumber and be engraved on plagues, buildings, statues, and headstones. My quotes will be tattoos. I will be immortal. My love poems will be read at weddings and funerals. Mathematicians suffering from ennui will find my codes. Muriel Rukeyser assures that I shall split the world wide open. My time is nigh-hand. Be prepared.
Where conspiracy theories meet feminist theories. (And sometimes there's poems).