There’s Not Much Rage in a Lower Case ‘i’

Well coiffed women roll
their fluid hips through the darkened
room in expensive dresses
where expressionless faces
hold prop drinks
in one hand and clap
the best they can
against plastic cups
with the other.

There are poems
about people who write poems
or publish poems
or how no one publishes
what they should.

There are poems
about sex
or drugs
or doing drugs
while having sex
or fucking
and doing drugs.

One woman’s
entire collection of paintings
is made
of semen
and menstrual blood.

The pasty skinned
man with yellow fingernails
and expensive suit took
black and white photos
of women in bondage
and homeless people,
and politicians walking
and a police man
eating a hot dog.

The hardwood floors
are immaculate
and slick
but the toilet
is the dirtiest
I’ve ever seen.

I hike my skirt
and go
behind the house
in the dark
with the cat
instead.


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