Kyle Coma-Thompson

The Switch Lord

I wear moon piss tonight,
and match earthquakes to my
headache. My best curse

Dutch James, schizophrenic
with analytical meth, is

on my porch again, flicking cruel
revelations at the fireflies.
    When they dare
wink their brief asses,

he shoots a spent Marlboro comet their way.

Oh, and: I am also nurturing
bourbon and Ginger Ale

in a Ball brand mason jar.
The bourbon, of course

is Ever Eternal. My stomach
    can only handle
that kind of batch by the gallon.
Dutchy, he'll pour himself
gladly down the narrow path

of any other drink except that one.

Once, I even saw him
press a rape doll

to the side of his blotto'd face,
the late night victim
    of wine coolers.
Death is just the understructure
of what it shits out as

imagination. Consider me,

    its poemstruck toilet,
its best impostor and Switch Lord.
Which is to say, if it's in need
    of another track to
curl down, I'm always
    willing and ready
to stamp out on early morning gravel

barefoot and in my cursed boxers
to handle the levers. Dutches,

    he trusts nothing,
and rises for nothing much,

except maybe the occasional sprout
or wrinkle of lettuce on
the communal Stoic Sandwich. A sub,
       six feet long,
that he opens with his bare grubby
claws to decorate with tinsel squirts

of mustard and mayonnaise and ketchup.
The glider on my front porch is ugly with crumbs.
    What with the pendulum
rate and grace he's committed to,

everything that rises as a mouthful
must crumble. As with civilizations

    and the ideologies
of utopians, the eats he chews
and swallows have a habit
of lining the sharpest, most deftly tucked

reaches of the cushions. (A bit
of a pause here, to explain myself:

I may not give a damn about Dutches,
    but I do fear him enough
to think about his comfort. In the end

I'll have to leave at some point;
    so maybe
he'll take this little cushion gesture on my part
into consideration. Though it may not
    translate into mercy, it might
play into his warrior's conscience
to edge back on the full rush

of his cruelty.) (But then again, maybe not.
Maybe I'm only aiding the evils of his digestion.
A full stomach + a comfy glider =

a fully satisfied killer
embodied with patience…

In which case, I might as well leave
out the front door, unarmed,

arms wide for the
last ditch cigarette he'll flick at me.)

In the end what we wear is of no importance.
But how we sport our shaved nakedness, everything.

 
            

Wendy XuKyle Coma-Thompson is the author of THE LUCKY BODY (Dock Street Press).