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our parents had such dreams for us
in the death only separate beds can bring

in the morning it was maladicta
balloons on your birthday it was grand mal

epilepsy petit mal petit mort
it was andy petitte pitching lights out perfecto

in the field of smoke where we take root
root root for the home team

shout like your dad
at the tv screen

your mother’s milk pixellated lengthwise
her nipples distended demitasses

through lips hung tough as cutlasses
we talked of taking blade to mouth at dusk

how it would rust us but we shot tetanus
hoops as well

after practice held a saucer of béchamel
i prayed would chrism

not the lasagna
anything but the lasagna

that frothing white mine flows for
and to boil the doughboy’s bagels of course

your dad snorted faint praise
and approval as well

that registers with me even now
even with julie with…

on the buds and the milk and cookies but
santa digs carrots and v8 stuck

in the shit-brick chimney like the son
in the cell with the shank in his spleen