the salākahattha:
        dip         your hand into red dye,
strike the wall, and figure        in rouge or rust,        a horse, or wolf.

little rogue riding hood,                       or snow white,
        virginity is a cringe
title i want        to write

        but what would the buddha think         of my bloated thinking?
or epistemology (i mean         fuck,
        what a rush!) i’ll share

with you, a near-rotten poem,              or a reinvented wheel
        of brie,                or dharma.         same thing.
rein it in. turn me over to                      gnaw my droopyservings,

then blow me         and the darjeeling. together
        we dip into                   the dark water, and strike up
dripping        horses. a hot conversation piece        on the backsplash.

figures,          between the two of us,
        only i would bake up                  a metaphor
of cranberries            to little mouths

        (we’ve all read this fairy tale)
like blood in the brie,
        studs in its shitty skin’s cream,               but i won’t tell.

the game is         no longer                my celibacy.
        bye,                        red-robed monkhood,                and millenia—
old leaves.           hello, confidential body, come 

apart to reincarnate.
        carnality is a thousand scotsman’s
wolf whistles                  rolled into pastry               and zen

        freezer butter, there for you
to vacuum up.             uproot.
        like a brute                      red        in carnation.

like this volta,                we always get turnt
        on         near the end.                       at our little deaths, i’ll handprint you
another wall lime.                      green tea               next time.