I dreamt your house
was on fire.
It was glorious.
I sat watching
with a bowl of popcorn
in my hands,
feet up, but then
stood up
because it was
Just
So
Good.
Your bastards ran screaming
like rats bailing
shipwreck.
You were quickly trying to sell
your other properties
to cover the damage,
cover your tracks,
but you were exposed—
your toxicity burning bright flames
and black smoke into the night.
It’s sad the way I carry
your cancer around with me,
scrubbed like Silkwood,
wet from tears,
splotchy from the rough handling.
Maybe one day I’ll show up
with lawyers and evidence and therapists
and sue your ugly, fat, creepy, meddling,
manipulative, controlling asses.
My last will and testament reads,
if ever I’m found dead in my car
before then,
with no explanation for the wreck,
there’ll be a church by the side of the road
trying to steal my body
and feed it to their fellowship flames
wiping blood from their cult-stained hands.
But, not to worry,
until then I’ll be cutting pieces out,
rolling them up in poems for Jesus,
and you know what He can do with a whip.