kateeviscerate











worthlessworthlessworthlessworthless
Too Big
(Rubenesque if one were feeling charitable)
for invisibilty
perhaps my realm is more mundane
a bridge; driven,
ridden, walked over
daily by hundreds
Pigeon grey statue
posted over town square
dappled with refuse
avian and bottanical
tilting misguidedly
after static windmill.

p.s.I insulted the gangster ladies’in my hood’s welfare benefits when they threatened to stab Dopeman’s dog. Dopeman repaid me by expounding loudly and in depth on my stupidity with a room full of witnessess.

p.p.s. I broke my promise to visit my friend tonight. I was exhausted but in hindsight I prettymuch hate myself for not going. I really wish I hadn’t flaked, and not just cause I would have avoided conflict with the neighborhood pta.



Still picking gravel out of my left arm from my bike bailout on the way home from work.  Little background: A few weeks ago I went on the worst vacation of my life. Things at Castle Chaos had been getting way out of hand, chemicals were flying left and right.  Shooting gallery would have been too gentle a term for my house.  So I tagged along to the Big Easy with two of my old friends.  Easy for them- to score rock.  After listening  me wailing on the phone every second I could get away from the gruesome twosome my roommates resolved to make life here a little easier for me.  I know, I know it’s my choice to live here.  It’s not like the lure of the spike escapes my notice.  And I know I wouldn’t make it in a house full of normies or twelve step zombies.  But still.  It’s hard to be the house mom.  The bill payer, caretaker, rent collector, nine to fiver.  So Dopeman and his skank sprung for a used bike for me.  Nothing too fancy but it’s fast.  I’ve ridden it to the methadone clinic and work the past three days and shaved at least an hour off my trip.  I don’t need to tell you that when you work six days a week, an extra hour of sleep can be a godsend!  Which brings us, gentle reader, to the present.  I limp home, tears and mascara running in rivulets down my face, bleeding through ripped fishnets, and tell Dopeman the tragic tale of my brutal bike bailout.  At which point he informs me that he and Skank have decided to hang onto the bike.  It’s nicer than his, and I did just fine with the bus, didn’t I?   Aaaaaargh.   I keep trying to stay calm by reminding myself that constant heroin use precludes activities like bike riding and therefore the odds of them actually using my new darling bike are slim to none.  But geez can’t a girl catch a break here?



et cetera