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I never sat around and plotted your misery


I get nosebleeds.

I keep a chicken on a chain. Wear a gown some Sundays. Screw hogs and teach them Greek. Killed seven in Horizon City, Texas. Killed two more in Tucumcari Nemexico. I stripmine graveyards. Can only mate in flight…And I can lick both boots clean at a trot.

A worksong. A chant is how it goes. Call and response. Singing it is hopeless.

You find something you been thinking about a long time. A person, maybe. Not this time though- lost track of her 1949. First year I made liquor from rosemary, anise and wormwood. She drank fully under my supervision and still disappeared. There is the nagging suspicion that she is alive now. Today I found in a shallow grave the remains of her sourdough starter, and the wig with the wild red hair.

Yet if I were truly evil I wouldn’t get so many postcards.