American Sonnet for My Past and Future Assassin [“Why are you bugging me you stank minuscule husk”]

Why are you bugging me you stank minuscule husk Of musk, muster & deliberation crawling over reasons And possessions I have & have not touched? Should I fail in my insecticide, I pray for a black boy Who lifts you to a flame with bedeviled tweezers Until mercy rises & disappears. You are the size Of a stuttering drop of liquid — milk, machine oil, Semen, blood. Yes, you funky stud, you are the jewel In the knob of an elegant butt plug, snug between Pleasure & disgust. You are the scent of rot at the heart Of lovemaking. The meat inside your exoskeleton Is as tender as Jesus. Neruda wrote of “a nipple Perfuming the earth.” Yes, you are an odor, an almost Imperceptible ode to death, a lousy, stinking stinkbug.