The Cartoonist

I squander myself, doodling,
occupying August.
Alone. Comic strips,

each entitled. In “Cancun,”
I’m the lifeguard—yet you
drown. In “Betrayal,”

What? My own sister?
(So I don’t really have a sister,
so what.) I come into her room

(it’s a party, I need my goddamn purse)—
you’re entwined.
The words I hurl now I’ve license!

A bloated speech-balloon.
I’m mighty. I’m rage.
Pointing the finger. Sparks! Ha!

Gratification’s a lurid job.I press down the pen hard.Her body’s a blot. Yours, scratched out.
Ink floods my ruinous mouth.