Not Today, Bitch

Inside. At last. A slice of Angel Wing
Bobs on a hook. Outside there’s shattered glass.
This is Bushwick in the bottom of the

9th Inning, where no one is winning, where
The mailman lies
Dead center beneath the James Turrell hole

In my ceiling. “Are there any letters from Pink?”
My shadow is screaming. “I suppose” is
All I can muster before the red telephone rings.

It’s Bruce Wayne feigning a triple-decked heart attack,
It’s Bruce ‘Fucking’ Wayne begging for his mask back.

Not today, Bitch! is all I can mustard and mustang
And maintain before my x-wife bludgeons me
With a martini glass. Meanwhile, we’re having a blast!–

It’s the top of the 9th, and Bushwick is screaming,
Wake the fuck up & get to work or take that 2 for 1
Swirly at the Wyckoff First Baptist Church.

Outside. At last. A slice of Angel Wing
Bobs on a hook. Shut the fuck up
& get to work.