The omnipotent impotent waited for its cue while the buccal
samples were gathered and the missionary nuns delivered the
fruit to the meningital youth in developing Southeast Asian
countries.
I had another plan.
I was under contract.
Not oath.
Were these postcards sent by the offshore drilling agents or
greeting cards sent by Chase Bank?
On the wrong side of the window, on the ledge actually, there
was a q-tip, the contract, and a bowl, and then I misspoke.
The girls lying down blindfolded in the back of the truck have
enough incentives and penicillin shots for our security.
We shouldn’t mischaracterize their presentation before the
ministers as nuptial even though that’s much more quaint
than what they even have in store.
An alphabet changes like a living tattoo, marking the
fugitives, the escaped girls from the back of the trucks, like
stock numbers, stock market numbers gone haywire before a
crash.
Into a snow-covered landscape human beings, the girls, fled
first as a unified trail before scattering where the rocks block
us from tracing them, a part of the ecology, they run as
though they have just been tear-gassed.
This poem is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts.
