Yo mama’s so funny she sued Red Bull because it didn’t give her wings. The cactus flower that guards the bull made a chaos of stillness until the horns wilted into capitol hill riddles, Dakota, Lakota, one armed crow pose with a tucked in squeal all the oil spills. It spills because it’s blood. Its inclination is to tell a story to take shape to uproot to close the drapes on lazy detectives to open the sun with toxic radiation if nothing else will claim the wound. Will you claim your wounds? Will you blame the tombs when what escapes them is cannabis pollen and all the rape we called misconduct. All the euphemism I was always high on I always liked to eat a cactus whole and let it limp down my throat and hold me accountable for my crackling sound its nearness to the ground in flight the way I like to graze when I’m hungry to feed everything around me but myself and feel as empty as blackness in the corpse of the bulls which we left to rot in a trojan style for the hungry ghosts I couldn’t feel it inside me when you wore that thin eye of skin so that the blood in the ground was evidence that anywhere hate was coded in prayer was American soil yo mama’s so American she still has hope she still goes high she still gitlow she still doesn’t know why we’re in Detroit in puff coats but we hold hands and run the border swim through Tarsands feel like the beginning of beeswax candles when you can still smell the queen begging to feed her young with the blood you’ve come to burn
