Black Wings
I eat wings. I’m such a pain.
Blue fly, butterfly, airplane, crane,
and everything in between.
I think you’d better hurry.
I think I live in a gooseberry field.
Two hundred miles wide, my mouth!
All these teetering hemlines, college-bound!
I still want — how shall I put this — cigarettes.
It takes a strong storm to blow over Man-Pig.
Suddenly I begin speaking a language.
It is one I’ve known from childhood,
the only one, my mother tongue!
Hey, Señor Potato Boob Gun,
you are just so goddamn free.
You’re taller than I thought you’d be.
Eleventy-thousand degrees outside
with a heat index of kablooey.
The tastiest wings of all are Satan’s.
But enough about me
is one of my favorite sayings.
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