Dear John

                Since the bar is in hell, something heroic: a small robot debuted who gives blow jobs,
                how exhausting, oral with no substance. On FaceTime it is your birthday,

                I am bleeding in more ways than one, stained recollection, lost language.
                We consider your homely neighbor: we joke she thinks of you while she masturbates.
                That night a dream of blood so museum-delicate, a fine line wound-stream. I smear well.

                I tell you I would kill her for thinking of you in pleasure. But you are a bad man
                and bad men are never worth killing over. Bad men and their pursuit of empty sets.
                Bad men and their pursuits of digital sucks. Bad men and their pursuits.
                I scan for her telepathically: take my John, please! Don’t worry about the knife.

Dear John

‍ ‍                   Arguably the worst time of day to die, some golden hour, a Friday.
                      These major figures in resurrection, Jesus on Golgotha,
                      all the other ones, who cares. Today you tell me I am radiant, twice.
                      A compliment reserved for ugly women. Do you have eyes in your head?
                      No matter. All the thieves equal hung, a fine dusted unpleasantry.
                      In uncertainty, a cling to death or eternity or reassurance.
                      To disburden in the exact moment of transformation, agony-abundance,
                      disfigured-glowing, is there a reprieve in any form of salvation?
                      To rise from the dead a danger to yourself and others.
                      To rise twice simply a lie by omission, your dishonesty so thick it chokes.

Dear John

                    I seek retribution in a drip-state. This is conviction. This
                    is adult time, not Montessouri. The disinvitation.
                   You, the wrongdoing, the perversion of boundary-
                    letting. The denial of slow fade out: at the door, at the pew, the threshold,
                    the choir chamber, someone singing an old hymn low and slow,
                    an incantation on the shit-smeared train, on my knees in eye contact,
                    your fear of clothes off. Brush the hair of my cheek, at least,
                    before you face fuck me into the money gun. Make it rain.
                    This morning I held the crystal glass I gifted you into the sun,
                    rainbows alive and giving. I plead for intercession arched
                    in eye contact, a middle distance so far my narrow fixes.
                    I lie in wait. I’m coming for you. Be ready.