Love Poem with Poison

Dear Mnemosyne,

Yes I am back on the cliff of you this morning.

I made the mistake of believing men can give birth.
Sometimes they spread their legs for more credibility
just like women used to do.
Some Greek men put cinnamon down their pants
just before a date, which I think is cute.
Trust is what poisoned me, but I grew resistant
just like that husband on Forensic Files whose wife kept trying
to kill him with stuff she scraped from mousetraps.
I think that's a funny image of THE BEST AMERICAN POETRY.
Today I guess I felt vaginal when I was thinking man
that I trusted you, the way stupid, fractal-loving starlings
trust each other and the sky, and a crowd is only okay.
Whether it's a poem or not where the crowd is
all wearing aesthetic 3-d FACEBOOK blinkers
to try to look sexier.
You think the city is interesting tonight
simply because of the massing starlings over the bridges
and how they cause funny auto accidents for crosstown dinnertime.
Assholes nearly killed by starlings!
Earth's poetry is never dead. It just opts out.
The winter side of matter decides to live
and I find myself on public transportation,
but with a part inside me bright as Lucifer again.

You did that. You and your cinnamon starling craving.

Can I suck that breath mint from your dad's mouth?

I want to see what happens to your face, okay?