Tuesday, August 11, 1998


Language's mildew, the sweet oysters who foam

at the mouth,

rabid and discontent,


Love is leprosy, love is kind.

I hear the distant bleating of

the mollusks.

Angry bourbon, it assaults the drinker,

who, sitting in a bar next

to a pretty, unintelligent


whom he asks to leave with him.

she agrees, smiling at the bourbon

as they leave,

arm in arm.

Merciful murders, killed before they knew

they were evil.

Killed while still innocent,

mercifully denied the right

to sin; they die.

sweet mercy.

Drunken oysters go postal.

Bottles of bourbon are found next to the dead.

The police call them murders of passion.

The drinker calls them frightening.

The victims do not speak.

The oysters are too drunk to comment.

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