On the Shrink’s Couch
Badger didn’t want to be a eunuch
anymore—it was beyond him. He put
his shirt on backwards; he mashed bread
to lumps and crumbs on the kitchen
counter. He shaved his crotch.
He hated lending books. He brained
a priest that rode him—that man
was worse than a devil. He never was
friends with a frog or toad, but ate them
when earthworms were scarce. Finally,
baited by men, he took the jaw
off a terrier, left the top teeth
stained above a blood plaster
and void. He broke open the bones
of fish and smelled the dead
sea, and god’s musty under–robe. 