the woman in the k-mart gable ate french bread
with dirty hands, she had opinions about impressionism
but did not know who monet was, only that debussy
was apparently an anti-semite, a fact retold at theory
seminars, when she was a young woman and threw
her body around like dough.
it impossible to say: sex and not also: woman’s
empowerment because otherwise what is
that woman? the grey kmart lid
overhands her entire, she took needles like porcupine
pricks and swollen pricks, either an insomniac
or mentally ill or “artistic,” the long-held
reduction of the other. but she
cannot blame her empty, the seeping
between, the vagina holes on
society; wait no she must she must. fuck
society that god creator of all
societal ills, otherwise she might have
attended more lectures and slept
less with aids-addled men.
fuck that, as if. the parking-lot is beautiful
symbolic, she sleeps in trash
like a sleeping goddess of capitalism
and female passivity, everything is about
her, EXCEPT // YOU F***ING MONSTER YOU
MADE HER MADE HER, NOW UNMAKE
HER, please call the receptionist and deposit
a starting reparation of seventy-five
thousand, she is behind in
anxiety medications.
the last pavilion 