Fold yourself over,
Paul Bunyan.

Put this stick
in your stick slot
you beanpoled crater face.

Kill it.
Kill it, your darling,
your byline.

Kill it, your pulp,
kill it downriver.

Your pornographic heart,
John Henry,
swelling, puffing
over the top of your long johns,
filling your kerchief.
Your beeline,
headed for the border,
the state line,
crossing
with a thirteen-year-old

redhead

in the hatchback,

in the way back,
the trunk-like interior,
face down,
hemorrhaging
fear
and that fear
mixing with gasoline
to make
a baby.