there is no race, though. only dishes

this year

i will grow a new head

a new face

this way

you will have

someone else to remind you to take your medication

and a playmate to distract

you during long rides 

on the uptown C

the only negative side effects—

one of these heads will have permanent coke-jaw

and the other head will hate little, trivial things about the first head

and point them out incessantly,

obnoxiously,

and she will also suffer from bulimia

this year

a reprioritization

of old flings

The Seven Deadly Sins

(pride down, gluttony up)

fathers

this year

I will buy a gun

and force those who preach about love

to drive me to JFK during

rush hour 

and finger the

bruise around my gut

i’ll shoot at the wind

when it gusts me,

at the house

when it burns down,

at the second head, when she

vomits

and i’ll thread wires inside of all my hooded garments 

so that i can close them securely 

around my crumpled brow

like a racehorse