Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Issue Twenty-four
Winter 2010
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MK-Ultra 2 (Montauk): Return Me to Houyhnhnms
Return me to yahoos, -- David Berkowitz
Annie Christain

All of this began when I saw the bird
use his beak
                      as a phonograph needle.

I could have accepted anything
as everything else
at that point,

but Iris told me a thing
can only be its own thing.

But she never had to sew silk
           onto the inside seams of her shirt

to try and stop
all the possibilities,

like when she told me
to yell in my bed
so she could clean herself with vigor.

The way she looked at me
up from her corn cob.

Iím not sure why the cops let me go.

I see them at our meetings.
They wipe their noses below my window

and I wipe mine.

I hate to see whatís behind her. Iris.

I remember for sure,
as a kid,
men kept saying hello to me at night,
each bringing his own coffee maker.

After days of trying to straighten my catsí tails,
I was thankful to try.

I hope everyone has a Happy Thanksgiving;
           thatís the main point of who I am now.

She promises I will return to the streets.
I add: In the arms from behind.

If I try to make my shoulder blades touch,
I feel them the least.

I will return, looking back,
as if to say:
           There have to be other arms.

Iíve been sewn upon to make all these arms.

Arms,
I have to return to what I do,

though I better not.

About Annie Christain

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