for an an-gel

Congratulations!

You have been endowed with

ten man NT dollars

(three grand in dead prez)

in fees set for exchange: cash

for health / green cards.

My friend, my Chinese

doctor has discovered

you have smilingly

stolen from me (though

usually meek minions

come lay hold of it)

and provided nil

in return. To you, angel,

a curse ever-so-slight:

may ass-gravy gush

from you in perpetua:

(1) until Latin rules Mass

(2) until the head on

your matchstick body floats - blank

with pained rheumy

eyes, pained with pure

wonderment: how could I stay

so sick for so long?

(3) until your guts eek the

filth you spread - even leaking

through undergarments,

deucing even the

adult diaper poop traps

you bought for Mother!

(suffering likewise);

someone has had to let you

think that tanking on

your commitments could

twist the tithings you owe Taiwan

into nifty net

profit - let the one

who loined you, join in . . . the

excess duress of

having your innards

seep out every glory-

hole and not know why.

A fortunate rule

change, one denying me the

right to get a green

card to work here (when

my creds clear me to do the

same in my home state),

a meddle-man's gem,

allowed this deceitful

door to open, and

let your hijinx heist -

lo, free money!! - from a

family of three.

Forget nurses and doctors

and deep-six all that.

To die in a fire

would be too quick, too kind. The

curse upon you shall

be liquid - let's take

the word away from the realm

of fees and numbers,

and set ebola

into your intestines,

you bitch!, and, in the

final ticks life grants you

may your piggy flesh puree,

may your eyes roll back

and see no shelter,

may sand slide down your windpipe,

burying your forked

flickering tongue with

promises unkept; may no

nurse kneel for you - none -

to cure your dis-ease.

No amount of currency

shall prevent me from

being the last face you

see, the one pouring sand down

your malfeasant mouth.

You'll be spirited

south like a gale-force fart, only

leaving a sour stench

in the air where your

body had soiled space.

These allusions to

feces have left me jonesing

for a throne to sit

on, and, although I

feel syllabically spent,

like a man typing

lottery notices

from the Congo, hope lifts me -

the hope that a road-

bound missile (a blue

truck) has a spot on its bird

whitened grill just

for you. Adrift here

in waste references, I

bid haiku adieu