Boona Daroom is 29 and lives in Brooklyn.

summer hiv, 1979

Her microwave
short-circuits the Everglades.
My entire plate turns
to cheese.
Good and bad
are intangible things
easily confused.
The woodgrain zenith
splatters its brains
on the wall
of the jacuzzi.
Her pantry
mixes Jack and Coke.
Our problems
are never black and white.
Just light
and dark.


My booby hatch
runs the water
and falls asleep.
My pharmacist
whips the cattle
with a delta ray
on the breadline.
My microchip
plays Game Boy
in the basement
of my pyramid
all night long.


The bomber flies
his operation over
an isolated Indian province.
And crashes.
CNN televises it.
The President speaks.
You can't spell slaughter without laughter,
he says.
Men shake hands.
A round of applause.
A round of golf.


I live in a plant
of nuclear activity.
My paparazzi
flee the industrial park.
She pukes shells and stones,
dips her tongue into my ear,
whispers absolutions.
The Bat Signal
shines from helipad
on bank building roof.
Her speech bubbles through
the poison sponge of her.
A breach is imminent.

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