Dear Ann Coulter—

Take it. Rape it. It's yours. You real
good at it. Stick it in your hateful archive

and remember if the x of you is lost, then the y
of us must cost in coastal collateral. Orgasmic

chasm in your implacable. Flogging blonde hair,
a flag ostensibly flatters. Ineluctable claque

spasms in fawning then commits felonies
against anyone who whispers. Split from effort

you are born into it. Charm of sluice, vetted
vats of guess which spatter “the lads” and

“didn’t matter.” Plastic action figure, brain-
batteried. To suffocate with unwavering index,

muzzling the infinite. Your backbone supplied
by a machine gun and a mochachino. Attacks

with what lacks. Ardent cerebellum disfiguration.
A schism in your perfectly parted hair.