Juliet Cook and j/j hastain



I don't want to dive into a fake orgasm contest
unless the prize is a lifetime supply of pie.

But not cherry
or a Ken Doll who has absolutely no interest
in my vagina. I only want friends
all around. Including a friendship between me 
and my vagina
and a heaping helping of black raspberry
with homemade whipped cream on top.

We all have different taste buds and
even the masculine aperture in the middle of my soul's space
is a specialty filling. The way I see it,
your hospitality movement might be a scone 
with a tiny leech inside on speaker phone.

Or it might be a landscape filled with custard-laced hospital food.
Just take me to the hospital morgue already and get it over with.


Classify the child that comes out
as other than

what anyone previously thought. However,
your classification technique must not involve
a knife cutting into an unknown body in order
to collect extra terrestrial flesh,
to pry intro cream that floats up to the sky.

It has to be much more
free than that. Freer than me
from whence it came.

We don't wrench out every bite of pie filling
because that would debilitate the crust.
We don’t try to unearth our whole life’s story in the memoir
about how we felt the first time we watched  E.T.
We don't maintain the exact same flavor forever.
Connective tissue eventually rips apart;

flutters down from the scaffolding
and lands in its own new space.


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