By Chris Gigi
They think her
simple in a chain that goes
wet behind the ears blood graffiti
positioning the self for a penalty kick
Pascal's bet throws its deep shadow over the reeds
I want to
suggest an errant text that levels the field
a briefcase at each end no more monkey in the middle
torn panties under pitch meetings
suited and drowsy boys drive
their point past the nub
arched arms domed belly
not the ghost of a chance to score
ii.
We pick the perp in a line of stress
evenly spaced throughout the page
like a beast
abjection works us
nonstop one day couldn't
be bothered the next
although
peripheral to the heart
which weighs on me like a panel
truck rounding the corner on three wheels
iii.
Meanwhile Gigi
drank her sports metaphors
in big gulps two balls per mouthful
like a good girl or social construct
nearly busted
a box explodes
a chair leaves
no need to babysit more analogies
sex takes care of writing it up for the zine
You come and go each night like a metal
curtain at lockup
deep teen song rearranged by the ways of the hood pockets
inside out