The Voice of the Electric Fence Is High and Wide as the World

I have tumor the size of a woman

on the area of my brain that oversees

oversight. The doctor totally spaced it

as the growth follows along the edge

of my insides, same shape as me, like jelly.

Which way I bend, so it goes—a mere

slip on an x-ray—crack of light between

my skin and guts. I've named it Louise,

after Tina—the first thing I ever yearned

to hump. Louise tells me people won't get

what I've done—they'll see me as if on the far

side of a pond, doing something slick

and unsavory with my hands—might imagine

blood on them (or worse—dead kids

stuffed in the reeds—sans underpants) but

she understands—says she knows I did it

all for love. "Love of what?" I once asked her

over rum punches. "The game, you goose!"

I know, I know: it's a huge mistake listening

to tumors—they're like a mirror pointed

at a mirror, but if only you could hear

the way she belts out the National Anthem—

I mean, it's not our anthem—it's not in English—

but it's one of those sure, strong songs

you could easily start a war on.

I'd Rather Be a Tiger than a Tail

This morning I watched a rat suffocate

another rat on the subway tracks.

Down the platform, it began as squeaks

soon swelling over "El Condor Pasa"

from the busker's violin. I came closer:

big rat had the little one pinned flat out

underneath: grey legs, curled pink toes

going kick-kick-kick then zip.

"Yech," said the guy next to me. Then

big rat bit the dead one by its scruff and

dragged it away— through poisonous puddles,

over bumpy ties and down electrified tracks

as the violin yowled, "I did it maaaaaaaahhheeeee

waaaaaaaaaaaaay." "Bet he's gonna

hump it," I said to the (oh, nice beard) guy.

"Well sure—it's spring, after all."

Children of the Blah Blah Blah Blah

This morning Willard says there's no place else

he'd rather be than with beautiful ladies at a pie contest.

"What's yer pie?" he growls to the petite 40ish Latina

on his right, giving her a squeeze around the waist.

"A Splenda Blueberry Sweetiepie!" she says

into the wrong camera, beaming. A cellphone

rings. "That's the bank! They want their money back!

Am I right, Carol?" he elbows the older, homely woman

to his left. She nods. "Now, what's yer pie?"

he growls again to the Latina, grabs her, and kisses her

forehead as she repeats the answer. "Splenda," he sputters,

"has revolutionized industry."  But will it be televised?

Jennifer L. Knox was born and raised in Lancaster, California, where absolutely anything can be made into a bong. Her work is featured in Best American Poetry 2006, and her book of poems, A Gringo Like Me, is available from Softskull Press.