"Satan's Got Your Ice Cream" by Anita Brey & Joe Cha
Friday the 13th
by Bob Flanagan & David Trinidad
You can make a new start with your last breath,
it so happens, every time you let go.
If bad luck follows, why not embrace it
like an oozing mutation right out of
your high school anthropology textbook?
Why not learn to love the part of you that
dropped off ages ago but nonetheless
hangs around, hiding in the attic or
in the basement, or somewhere in between?
Are you afraid other people might scream?
Too bad if they do. You are what you were:
a ghoulish vision of selfishness and
self-imposed emotional implosion.
You have no reason to live, but still you
fog up the windows with your heavy breath
and point that accusing finger at me,
the one who wants to hold you in his arms.
Youíve grown too big for that, like a balloon
expanding beyond your own capacity
and my sense of good taste. It takes courage
to stay the same, bravery to be small.
In the land of the giants, no one gets
stepped on but the dumb ones, the bit players.
What a spectacle your life has become!
With your head in the clouds, you donít notice
the peons you crush beneath your great feet.
Itís no great feat to make mud pies of men,
but you act as if you should be given
a standing ovation. We applaud you,
O fifty-foot woman! When you attack,
our penises react, little pip-squeaks
squealing and scurrying hither and yon.
We excite you, donít we? Oh, please say so!
Otherwise we must hide our heads in shame,
weeping over our diminutive egos,
while you grow larger with each breath you take.