I am the boquita.
I am the sociopathic, evil twin
taking your calls.

I am raging and misfiring
neural pathways.

O my stars.
O my miserable
and cryptic poetry.

Me is a mama.
Me is a descent.
Me is mine eyes.
Me is so funny.

My being sane because
I pay a lady a lot
of my wage for it.

My etymology: song
and theological promise.

My poems are in the crypt
of my poetry corpse,
corroded by glitter and zombie
juices and affect theory.

Tendencies: self-destructive.
Impulses: well-meaning.

The first spouse:
oppressor.
The second: a divinity.
The third will be an Artemis,
because, sakes alive,
that’s my slow jam!

My wedding dress
is made of wood:
an admission
of complicity.

My stunted
yet singular
intellect pushes against
the emperor’s slop.

I mime
an understanding
of your boxes
cracking them
open for an audience
of privilege and aspiration.

I southern
mise en scène.

Grandmother told me
I’d be a guitar, but
she just wanted to pluck me.