from The Grave of the Great Alley of Clarity Cats by Mike Giardina
Those who have found a standard way of going
You are a hapy valley fever–
you–a free flow anyhow,
an interchangeable part
in the game of release
or anything that smells that way.
Things are faulted in your midst,
are terminated in the
chemical castration of critique,
of comedy, of the world out there
and even yesterday’s.
Yet, you should know
that I am not what he did.
I will not be killed by your husband
or any of his mysterious city-fears.