about the status of the kitchen knives, as in where are they?
but what i meant was - how come even the love in poems is sad love?
or else, make it nuke
and take, like harpsichord flowers, each stupid child
and lift them up in their stupid little skins until they are unlonelied
and then unclench a fist to find nothing there.
I miss my maccaroons.
I miss nothing but maccaroons.
I miss lying to my sister about underoos.
I miss the sound of my sister
ripping juicy pooties in the next room
my sitter is Lincoln in the kitchen
she cried until somebody put a bullet in her head
->    HEAD
my sister is lying to her head -> HEAD
standing
on top of her husband's head
turning and turning in the widening gyre
"boom shakeshakeshake the room" pounding from next door.