Caged Heat

by John Rocco

I got a collection notice today
and a half a bottle of Irish whiskey
and the night long and lush and there
and Zygote in My Coffee #3
with me in it.
I immediately tear it open to
spot errors typos make secret big deal
but my poem is perfect
“Night into moon sky”
exact tortured words
crushed into lines
on this page
caged heat
OK.
But

(don’t I have enough secret cowboy shootings
spaghetti style
me drawing first and fast and often
to avoid this?)

But
I’m surrounded by library poem on two pages.
Now, the library is fine
but do I have to have it hanging all over me?
Can’t my night into moon sky have its own page?
I pull through anger through pages
knowing I wouldn’t like any poem
near me regardless. I read them.

Some guy calls Jim Morrison
dead. Someone else
laments lamenting.
Don’t they know
the Lizard King in French Dirt
is Alive
and killed lamenting?

I read some girl poems for company.
Cheryl is a pro;
Aleathia is always on;
and Debbie Kirk kicks
all our fucking asses.

Women write better poems.
Something to do with
DEATH.
Proof:
p. 65
“My Mannequin Phobia”
by Hollie Stevens.
Last lines: “They will seek
revenge by coming to life
and start killing everyone
(by rectal fisting).
I’m sure that this
reign of terror
will begin at the exact
moment that I decide to walk by.”

Wow.

I’m here now at the
Adult Entertainment Expo.
Nina Hartley just walked by.
I’m armed to the teeth:
guns, bazookas, samurai swords,
throwing stars.
The readiness is all.
Gin and tonics down the hatch
Vicodin chasers
I’m on patrol passing the
Real Doll booth.
Passing the
Real Doll booth
is Hollie Stevens.
She is holding
the consecrated host
and a red leather bound
THE PERFUMED GARDEN
translated by Sir
Richard Francis Burton
(he got a spear through
his face coming out both
cheeks in Africa).
The Real Doll booth
erupts in zombie mannequin
terror war.
The sex dolls are on fire
with hate because of all
the shit shoved into them
and their black dead eyes
are alive with shark robot revenge
and they grab people and stick
their hard plastic fists up their asses
rupturing everything
arterial spray Jackson Pollock.
Hollie looks at me with
wide-eyed kid fear
something out of the past
and we run
the walls gone
we pass through
all the rooms words
were written in
and we hit the beach.
We are on a cliff
the crashing ocean below.
I turn my weapons on the
mannequin zombie robot army
to impress Hollie.
I take many mannequin heads
with blinking dying eyes
this day.
We then jump into the waves
crashing crashed crush
we die
we are born
we ride bicycles in the sun.