tainting my pure comfy cotton candy spirit-
a rather queer wild thing that one is-
If so, Dante didn't think big enough in his Inferno,
he hadn't met me.
Cut open my gut and you'll find yellowed pages,
reels of film, and a liver that drowned during an overdose
before I was of age.
But if there is no hope,
an autobiography of confession seems immoral,
then let me smoke my skin dry,
and at least I'll smile,
until these Cro-Magnon teeth of mine off themselves.
I'm a product of immigration and imagination,
with faith in faithlessness.
The wild things fester in civility, and I'm a victim.
At least I'm drunk.
