It’s the first poem in the collection; a bit of whimsy, hostility, envy.

The Proper Tool

I’m raring. I’m keen. Keen on the job, keen on green
suede, pea soup green suede. Round mountains
of breast meat. The taste of breadfruit. I’m fond
of blue fin, the Nepali coast. On off days I mourn

road kill, vanishing tooth fairies, yell above the wind
in ironwood trees or run over wild boars. I try to decipher
your posture, sagging down pipe. Was it something I said?
Did I wing a wrench into the works of your Stoly-propelled,

part-time life of letters? Did my leaky duck plump
body mangle your shift,
the entire working class hero period?
You don’t know your Gatsbys
from your Kowalskis, pub-crawling from slumming.

I buy jade, Siberian tiger’s eye. Thyme
infused bath bombs. Glass beads. Silk and suede,
green suede, so much easier to stroke than you.
Go saw yourself in half. Go nail

it in, back against the wall. Paint yourself, or it,
black. Into a corner. Weld your metal. Meld
the two halves of your dark side. Screw yourself.
Gather the loose ones. Punch yourself out.