Cult of The Jackalope

I went down on the universe and she gave me crabs like tiny itching stardust.

Now I walk around fresh from razor and medicated shampoo, a baptized and immediately excommunicated member of the Jackalope cult: giddy-nauseous, manscaped, a marble Adonis about to vomit off gin and tonic with eyes only for fur, for her fur.

I had one last vision of the Jackalope, that Freudian slit, in a dark Dakota plain – the Badlands –

no rails, ties or howling train here, just grass and churning night.

She loped towards me and with each bunch

and release of haunches the light changed.

Night to day and back again until she reached me and gored my side with her antlers, flipping out a grapefruit tumor like grease off a hot griddle.

And I thanked her as she lay on my wheezing chest in the flattened grass and blood and spilled cancer.

I said to the Jackalope in this dream that felt so real except for all happiness, “I like it when your mascara drips. It’s sexy, like you’ve been crying, like I come upon you in sorrow and I comfort you.”