When I was ten, a pedophile
covered my naked body
with leaves and spider webs,
then left me for dead and oh,
I was so sick with anger.
Fifty years later your spidery jaws,
and spineless back entered my bible
and boarded my Ark like a baboon
courting The Tree of Knowledge
with its bare ass clambering around
like a deformed cunt on the long coastal
line of insincerity and oh, how you
made me laugh with anger.
Knowing is standing in the nude
on the porticos, the rotundas of my courtyard
watching you clean the manure
in the Hudson, barren mother
of an adopted blank face idiot,
old cow with the dull stars.
The vowels of your name fall
like empty echoes to the least
of all my canyons.
Or was it that you thought my pen
did not have clout?