- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Graveyard Lullaby
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The holy trinity of the replacement father: white ghosts flit from season to season. The first son spent the most time straightening out Eve's tendrils. He wrestled every snake and stole Medusa's lipstick. The next closest in proximity, holy roller wife in tow spent Miller after offensive joke until he paid good money in installments for poor Psyche's hymen-found in a '77 Chevy Corvette disguised in brown wrapper; Cupid's got tire tracks still smoking. Errant arrows and a broken bow. Doubtful this third has ever smiled. An accidental fall hard into breaking up the Beatles with Poseidon's trident. Heads lazy in laps and blood everywhere.
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