Motherland Fatherland Homelandsexuals Read Online Free PDF

it to become the only thing people remember about you.
    The rape joke is that you asked why he did it. The rape joke is he said he didn’t know, like what else would a rape joke say? The rape joke said YOU were the one who was drunk, and the rape joke said you remembered it wrong, which made you laugh out loud for one long split-open second. The wine coolers weren’t Bartles & Jaymes, but it would be funnier for the rape joke if they were. It was some pussy flavor, like Passionate Mango or Destroyed Strawberry, which you drank down without question and trustingly in the heart of Cincinnati, Ohio.
    Can rape jokes be funny at all, is the question.
    Can any part of the rape joke be funny. The part where it ends—haha, just kidding! Though you did dream of killing the rape joke for years, spilling all of its blood out, and telling it that way.
    The rape joke cries out for the right to be told.
    The rape joke is that this is just how it happened.
    The rape joke is that the next day he gave you
Pet Sounds
. No really.
Pet Sounds
. He said he was sorry and then he gave you
Pet Sounds
. Come on, that’s a little bit funny.
    Admit it.

The Hornet Mascot Falls in Love
    Piece human, piece hornet, the fury
    of both, astonishing abs all over it.
    Ripped, just ripped to absolute bits,
    his head in the hornet and his head
    in the hum, and oh he want to sting
    her. The air he breathes is filled
    with flying cheerleader parts. Splits
    flips and splits, and ponytails in orbit,
    the calm eye of the panty in the center
    of the cartwheel, the word HORNETS
    â€”how?—flying off the white uniform.
    Cheerleaders are a whole, are known
    to disassemble in the middle of the air
    and come back down with different
    thighs, necks from other girls, a lean
    gold torso of Amber-Ray on a bubbling
    bottom half of Brooke. The mouths that
    cry GOOD HANDS GOOD HANDS.
    The arms he loves that make the basket,
    the body he loves that drops neat
    into them.
    Oh the hybrid human and hornet, who
    would aim for pink balloons.
    Oh the swarm of Cheerleading Entity,
    who with their hivemind understand
    him. Rhyme about the hornet,
her
tongue
    in
her
mouth at the top of
her
throat! Clap
    one girl’s hand against another’s. Even
    exchange screams in the air.
    The pom-poms, fact, are flesh. Hornet
    Mascot is hungry, and rubs his abs, where
    the hornet meets the man. Wants to eat
    and hurl a honey, in the middle
    of the air. (No that is bees I’m thinking of.
    Like I ever went to class, when the show
    was all outside.) The hornet begins to fly
    toward the cheerleaders. “Make me
    the point of your pyramid,” he breathes.
    And they take him up in the air with them
    and mix and match his parts with theirs,
    and all come down with one gold stripe,
    and come down sharp and stunned,
    and lie on the ground a minute, all think-
    ing am I dead yet, where am I, did we win.

The Descent of the Dunk
    First no one could dunk and then they all could.
    The dunk evolved, and then stood upright, was even
    perceived to be intelligent, with too big a brain
    at the top of it, the ball. It grew upright and smooth-
    skinned with a tendency toward religion, the dunk
    stood up too fast, they said, and consequently has
    headaches, and trouble breathing in spring when
    it is so beautiful. The childhood of the dunk
    was no childhood at all.
    He practiced on a paper route, throwing
The Sun
    to the same place each morning. Did not sleep long
    but when he slept, the springs of his bed imparted
    something to him. At night the streetlight floated
    down and let him dribble it. Then there was school
    there was every day school where he crumpled up
    tests and tossed them in the trashcan. He shouted
    TWO POINTS and had to stay after and copy out
    the “football” page of the dictionary, which could not
    keep him down—he saw writers of the dictionary
    at their desks, performing small silent neat dunks.
    The crowd of the devoted watching. Like watching
    is