you get out of bed

your penis has been replaced

by a ladder

you drink a cup

of cold coffee

then begin to scream

droplets of saliva

collect on the framed picture

of your mother

each of your tongue’s

worm-like halves

slip out

snake their way into a nostril

though you can hardly breathe

you order a pizza:

double cheese, mushrooms

green peppers, anchovies

and yes

the blood of a boiled, skinned baby

large order please

only joking:

a diet Pepsi and some garlic bread


you think to yourself

will my trousers fit?

how will i chew?

what will my father say

climbing towards the roof

on his brother’s penis?

down in the street

there are little men


their assistants hold


dour looks clouding their faces

their green uniforms

are faded

and they have only just now

begun to clap

family relations are so complicated

you say

swinging your penis into the bathroom door


I was recently thinking about this poem from an older book of my, Outside the Hat (Coach House Press) because, yeah, well, family relations are still so complicated.