Poem Number Three.

Yeah, I said it, and I meant it. This is the tip of the iceberg, Onstad, you fool, and I am unleashing HUNDREDS of these poems on you in the coming months. You know you screwed up this time.

- - -

The Dust Bowl (Untitled)

With Auntie Mae
We wash the dishes in the
tin tub.

Supper was corn cakes;
we traded the
map of Albuquerque
for the frying
lard.

Hard lines in her face;
if she were a car; ...rusted.

She joined us, shaken,
having lost everything , — ,
her children perished
at her dry teat

She can never
make it up
to her God.

- - -

Good luck sleeping tonight, Onstad, you clown. Yeah, you picked the wrong guy to fuck over a barrel. I'll be destroying you again in a couple days.

From,
Pat.