poem for January 8 I keep telling her stories vaquero, paleteria search out the insane bits
smothered in vintage price tag anglo
New Mexican’t
appropriator they aren’t wrong gringa It’s my sun, too Frozen dust spackles my window corners
winds scrape gray clouds against a blunt steel
box meant for hauling rodeo steer I am slick ordinary, plastic Virgin Mary
a dim mixing bowl heaped with salted pork I am twisted white-girl braids hiding calico wrinkles
or one upturned sole made of tire-blown rubber I didn’t want to be Outsider but god pushed me
onto a rusty conveyor belt I rolled past watermelon haze hills chico, chile I am rum yellow moths under her medicine light
I blame him for things Aberdeen Key Shop I'm crazy and they do not have the Portuguese wine price Occupied by the British West Indies wrong country freezing wind my window is the pin collar flavor Ground ash carry steelhead Dark material is mixed with the charge Lee mother pig White snake, I went to Tibet from the CD to the fetus pattern cloth plastic Fragmentation with the push of oxygen station send West Branch back, intellectual His medicine root yellow moth