i’m the kind of werewolf who turns into a shih tzu. ruff ruff motherfucka.

//

while grandmama spoke on the clean blood of Jesus, i watched the hounds in the mud hot for anything warm & thought of something better to worship.

//

i stand in the dark bathroom in my tightest shortest short shorts my vaselined legs the only things catching light. i say, i’m a real bitch three times, clap my hands above my head. nothing happens. i walk back into the club, put my hand on a man’s chest & it’s a paw.

//

the gay agenda made CatDog to offer your child’s gender to their seven-headed god.

//

a dead dog is a hero, a dead lion is a hero, a cloned sheep is a miracle a dead child is a tragedy depending on the color, the nation, the occupation or non-occupation of the parents.

//

during the new moon, i switch from an –a to the traditional –er, i raid the farm, smash the melon patch, swallow chickens whole spit out the bones ground down to smoke, howl Geee-zuss! toward the sky’s great nothing.

//

//

dog bred to smell the coke. dog bred to smell the bomb. dog bred to smell the nigger hid beneath the floorboards.

//

dude’s dog won’t leave the room, won’t let his lord out of his sight, won’t let his master disappear, won’t let himself go hungry, won’t let nothing happen to the one who brings the water, even if it means being owned, being witness to his hunger or maybe he’s just dumb.

//

stay. open. stay. look at me. stay. open. teeth. bad. bad. stay. open. treat. treat. pant. wag. treat. good. stay. good. stay.

//

i listen to DMX smoking a blunt doing bout 90 in a 55 when the cop ask if i know why he pulled me over i bark, i’m just trying to be me.

//

the dog upstairs won’t shut up but i can’t hate him, he’s up there alone all day, making noise must be the only way he knows he’s not a ghost.

ode to gold teeth

gold gate of grandpa’s holler

midas touch his blue hum

honeymetal perfuming prayers

crowns who crowned his crowns

made even his vomit expensive

gangster grill before gangsta grillz

marked my granddaddy OG of the gin

sermon & front-porch pulpit

made everything he said sound gold-rimmed

bible or gold-rimmed tires

gangsta white walls, TV antennas

cross the back of your legs talk smart

even his punishments sparkled.

o his golds, when young i thought

your mustard gleam meant my papa

was a kind of hero, alien, or stone

so confused on how he hid

all those suns so near his tongue

his mouth held the day hostage

but didn’t swallow it. o butter glow

country tiara, ghetto kingdom

of molars, glinting hallelujah

pork stuck near the black gums

forgive me, forgive me, citizens

of my papa’s dead mouth