Dinner at Ice Age

Why don’t you join us for the hunt?

A wholesale woman.

A bag of dried prunes.

I flip on my shades at the dawn of my massacre.

A sandal, mouth popped open.

I am too selfish to hunt anyone besides myself.

I could be that Rae Dunn bitch sleeping within white pickets

without a single bloody thing at the points.

Grinding my teeth.

A pitchfork for a roast.

A braked-wheel ripple across my temples.

A gospel.

Unhinge each of my tendons after Sunday.

Two coupons.

Pierce my heart chamber.

Free drink.

One coupon.

Lick my heartbeats off the rod because 

the rhythm

is the only thing left of me.