Queerodactyl

Spandex leggings authenticating my anaerobic

     exit strategies. Crotch but a bumper sticker

in a heretofore-fleeting waterloo. Crunk repentance. I span

our doomed alphabet soup like Jane Fonda’s antiwar legs

     in calisthenic videos. My zenith of hair a brown,

          wannabe-Fawcett, mean-ole-toucan pupic papa — .

He who so feeds on an entire corpus and still

starves, helms the colloquium outside the bathroom

of transubstantiation.

Tonight — a vastly archived Nietzschean

nighttime — I anal bleach my humpty-

dumpty stigmatas.

     Boys conch with crimson Hollywood carpets that disentangle

from their cavities, accustoming their catwalks upon the blood

clots of their mamacitas. As twilight uncrowns the shade,

     I howl effluvium, switchblade hue

to hue. I plié before the gas cloud lifting jumbo leaves.

Like a mythic infantry, the thirsty roaches begin to leatherflock.