John Oakey
Teenagerdom
Mom is a shopping mall
of rotten peaches.
She doesn’t know skin
magazine
cartridge
of videogame
in my Jansport
load.Ironic,
I apply
for jobs
that blow.I unleash baboon on
nakedness
buried in mascara and
hugging sweaters
locked in hot
damp cellars
by androgynous toys.Mom is:
bucking witches
too bloated for their brooms
linger in sturdy branches
spying.Mom is:
Old man spider sits
on my head.Yespleasemother
I will apply
I will spill blood
and get a
head.Nothankyoumother
I’ll buy my lunch.I live for sneaking in
windows (snort!).
