Serial Mondays
Nichole Buchholz

Victor McGinney said,
“I hate Mondays.”
                                   Shut up!
5:30 a.m. in the westward sun
masturbation.
Men in March
clink-clank
freedom bounces on rolling hips.
                                 Wake up!
“I hate Mondays!”
cold concrete floors
slop-slap        
against warm feet.
                                 Exercise!
Rusted pillars illuminate
what tiger stripes of justice
prevail.
                                         Eat!
“I hate Mondays!”
packaged beaten embryos
slushed oat curd
chard ass of swine.
                                     Digest!
Sud infested crevices
flesh swords jostling
snap-whip-whoosh
terry-cloth.
                                   Shower!
Bone to flesh
Flesh to bone
Crack
Snap
                                      Nurse!
“I hate Mondays…”
tick, tick, tick,
blades whirl
the tiger rhythm in trance.
                                        Rest!
                     ***
“One,” said Victor McGinney.
Moss sprawled northern rocks
age worn water logs
golden hymens—torn.
                                 Innocent.
“Two,” said Victor McGinney.
Dust covered ply
nail littered lawn
carrier—defeated.
                                  Accused.
“Three,” said Victor McGinney.
Cleansed plastic sheet
beep, beep, beep, beep
senility—forgotten.
                                     Guilty.
“Four,” said Victor McGinney.
Plush casing, exuberant mouth
snap, flash.
Don’t cry, Baby,
two—for one.
                         Incarceration.
                     ***
“You hate everyday, Victor McGinney.”
Blistering boils seep
pink puss, bloody piss
burns fleshy sausage. 
                                  Sickness.
Syphilis conquers the wicked.
Rage festers in life’s blood
for reason and clarity.
Forgiveness not granted.
                             Damnation.
“Go with God my Son.”
Hollow, red smattered, green orbs
stare at salty wet hatred.
Eyes wide shut to swabbed injection.
                                  Painless.
Heirs reconcile with elders.
Victor McGinney restrained erect
solid inches impenetrable glass.
Christ on Crucifix.
                                      Ironic.
Death for death
conquer innumerable
life times of pain.
Victor McGinney rests.
                         Peace at Last.