KERMIT WINONA
Mound Of Flesh In An Unnamed Place
Pink locked box for the heart and
assorted glass jars for the loved ones and
cage within a cage within a cage for the
gender, that slippery thing.
Crucifix for the aching throat and oh, Christ –
here come the hounds.
(Keeling and whining et cetera.)
I am among them. I howl at moons you cannot see.
Structure, gimme structure, gah!
This collar is too tight. I will run
out of words one day and I will
regret approximately half of them.
I am not what I say. I am a mound of
flesh in an unnamed place. I didn’t
do it, I didn’t do it, aside from the parts I did.
(It wasn’t on purpose.)
Hound, see? Mound of flesh, see?
Daily exercises for the diseased mind and
pills upon pills for the diseased mind and
patience, please, be very gentle with the
diseased mind.
I’m violent as a poorly fitted windowpane.
There is a tennis ball coming for me there
is a fist coming for me there is
rain seeping through at the
worst of times.
Do I cut? You? Ever?
It wasn’t on purpose. There’s a place for
bad things with four legs. No. Not yet –
I can’t go ’til I’m on The Muppet Show!
If I can’t save myself this time,
remember me by this sloppy haircut and
some overdone motif or another.
(Dogs ’n’ God ’n’ all that.)
And if I may have one more thing to say, let it be this: ‘Trans kids live forever.’
Kermit Winona is a poet and visual artist living in Pōneke. His work can be found in bad apple, Symposia, takahē, and others. His best friend is a rabbit named Park Bench.