Space Ex for Virgins

I was screaming at a banana when a man I had never met appeared, arms folded, telling me he was my
ally come to instruct me in the art of reasoned discourse. I had no time to check with High Command to
determine whether his claims were genuine, so we watched Steven Universe for weeks. The Foo
Fighters had taken up residence in my head to my dismay, and I woke up seemingly every hour more
sure than ever before the world was disintegrating. Glaciers receded and returned, crushing the hunter-
gatherers in their paths. This is exactly like the time before, but the Earth will never heal from the
psychic trauma.

Services rendered include 3D animation, bugs on my skin, a Hibernian sonata, my hero’s clever turn of
persuasion, a fickle testament to the salad of time, and a Wells Fargo close to Capitol Hill where I was
paid to destroy the country by sitting in a chair. The man sitting next to me in Dirksen looks down on
Esperanto, believes it was invented by the UN as a conspiracy against American leadership. I tell him
the UN had nothing to do with it, or try to, but he’s disappeared now that it’s time to be paid and my
usual boss is angry at me for not being able to find him and intends to prosecute me. It was all a
misunderstanding. The UN had nothing to do with it. My client is a cactus.

It’s always when the elves have gone away that you miss them the most, or so I’m told. I tried searching
for their dust once and ended up on Jupiter, who told me I was trash and to slap his face. Rome has
been kind to the buzzwords over the years, the ambient charlatans whisking their way onto the face of a
five-dollar bulletin full of anti-Semitic canards. “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” I tell my
friends, but they’re trying to watch the movie.

After the revolution I will live in Kalorama again but this time I won’t be working for food and a bed
and the homeless will occupy every condo eating nothing but the best food if we cook it ourselves and
we do what we can to help out and no one will use us to bolster their image with the yuppie left while
starting slush companies in our names avoiding accountability with intermediaries who just needed a
place to get out of the cold and when it’s nice and warm I’ll go to the park and I’ll look at the flowers
and write.



Catherine B. Krause is a queer disabled transgender woman living in Niagara Falls, NY with her girlfriend, three cats, and PTSD. Her poetry has appeared in Rabbit Ears: TV Poems (NYQ Books 2015), Gargoyle (as Valeria Numinosa), Beltway Poetry QuarterlyThe Opiate, and Revue Post.





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