Jennifer Jean

Grendel, 1971

There’s a fist
making its way up the Venice boardwalk,
a cocked fist aiming. Its name
is Grendel

& he is a they,
is made
of 5 or so dicks
digging into
1 proverbial palm.

Grendel knows, Hell
is mother
people. He loves himself
to locate pleasure. He doesn’t notice
the difference between
a person
& the hole
inherent in a fist. That many holes
must be forced

to exist. Some weep.
& rabbits jump into
natural kinds. You can punch one
into drywall. The edges of
these are too jagged
for Grendel & Grendel
must not
suffer. Or wait.
So, any little thing
will do.

Like that chick
dragging at her last
smoke on the boardwalk corner.
That shit is a gift. That chick
will do.
Here’s a gift, says Grendel
at this other dick’s apartment
where the chick was
& done.


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