Curanga Pie Blues

I was conceived in the cold heat
Of the late stage Anthropocene.

My mother’s milk was curanga pie.

I am a born again pleonasm—
Aphasic—ecstatic in static,
Mendicant in white noise.

I am obscenely petulant,
Vaguely touched,
Piqued & hot
With fleas.

Endless
Not.

What I’m Reading:

“Hers is the kind of presence that registers as an absence.”

— Tess Gunty / The Rabbit Hutch