coughing in pink sheets and watching
daytime tv clips at 4 am:
Tyra Banks interviews a vampire named Don,
who is psychic, also celibate,
who says he has transcended
those urges
we could all learn a lot from Don,
who has a human body, yes
but doesn’t let it stop him
I am learning a lot like,
I’ll never be a sanguinarian—
repeat that, red tongued, several times—
like a lost zodiac category,
like the bonus vocab word of
an eighth grade goth girl,
sanguinarian, imagine,
I can’t even locate with my thumb
where the big vein blinks
against that spot
in my ungraceful neck
and those urges
those urges
oh about that
Don wants people to take him
seriously, he wants Tyra to stop
doing the sign of the cross on camera
each time he speaks
I want to focus hard on growing,
through my forehead,
two perfect and formidable
astral fangs
to be seen, greedily
like, fistfuls of halloween candy stuffed
in the mouth and gagged on
do I mean seen or devoured and
is there a difference, when you do it right