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Poam: Militant Man With Schizophrenia

the problem with people in this country today is they don’t love the US of God-damn A anymore. All these yuppie faggots riding their trains to work, their bmws, their jags, and I went to war for ‘em - went to hell and back. we chanted Sodomize Hussein for ‘em. and we loved the God damn wars: WWI, II, Korea, ‘Nam, Nicaragua, Iraq cause we were fighting for something. something real. what the hell - what has this country come to?

Ha. He thinks he’s really funny. Strong. I’m Jennifer. I know him. He hasn’t been laid in years, and most of the times were with foreign women. What does it mean when you have to pay for sex? It means you’re not a man, and he knows it. He doesn’t usually let me come out. But, you see, I’m really stronger than him. Oh, and that kills him, a woman being stronger than him. But, you see, he never lets himself be loved. He tries to hide himself in his stupid war talk. But I come out every once in a while, put on my little red dress, put on the lipstick. Mmm, you know, lipstick feels so good gliding across your lips.

I shanked a nigger faggot when i was in the clink. the faggot tried to rape me but he didn’t know who he was dealing with. I’m a man, Goddamnit. I’ve robbed stores. I’ve killed men. I’ve had women. and there’s always an enemy and I can beat ‘em all. once when I was in grade school a kid called me a pansy and I beat him so hard they had to take him to the hospital. nobody messes with jimbo breen.

I know I’m better looking than all those Hustler magazines he keeps. He keeps these old magazines, you see, old car and drivers, old soldier of fortunes, old hustlers. Some of ‘em gotta be ten years old. Usually when I take over I just look through those sex mags and laugh. They don’t know what they’re doing. I could make a man happy. I could give it to him any way he wanted it. God, I want a man inside of me, in my mouth, in me now. I could even climb the corporate ladder, if that’s what would turn them on, if only I could overpower that bastard’s mind. I could be fucking every man I saw. I could walk out on the streets and be whoever I wanted. God, I could be something.

women are such bitches. they can’t be trusted .

Who is he hiding from? Let me come out.

this is a good country. nobody’s got no God-damn pride anymore, and I’m sick of all the faggot yuppies, these God-damn cowards, corporate cogs - they don’t stand up for what they believe in. and people don’t fear the Lord anymore. know who they should look up to. I have a picture of Ollie North. it’s an eight-by-ten. it’s framed in my kitchen.

I wish he’d clean this place up. I’m not going to do it. What, does he think I’m gonna cook for him too? Why doesn’t he get a job, one that lasts for more than four months, one that’s not in a liquor store so he can get drunk every chance he gets. Thank God he doesn’t have the guns anymore. He used to have a ton of ‘em, keep them hidden in every corner of this one-bedroom hole above some old bag’s garage. If the guns were still here, I’d kill him. No, I couldn’t, I’d be killing myself then. He’s all I got. I just wanna get out, I wanna live, I wanna stop hiding. I want him to take down his guard for just one minute, that guard of his that is still stronger than his sargeant’s from Korea. Damnit. I wish his mind would just rest, so I could take it over again, but it seems to always be there, on the defensive, darting around, looking for ways to protect himself.

there’s a war behind every corner. you’re gotta learn to fight. people don’t know who to trust anymore, what to believe in, but I do. I am jimbo breen.




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Chicago poet Janet Kuypers
on all art and all writings on this site completed
before 6/6/04. All rights reserved. No material
may be reprinted without express permission.

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