I met someone named Minky yesterday. She is fucked up.  The library called me and said, “Minky is here.”  I said I didn’t know anyone named Minky.  The library said, “Minky told us to tell you that that she’s waiting to be fucked by a bovine machine.”  I told the library I did not know what a bovine machine was.  They said, “We heard you own a bovine machine and that you ordered Minky using our internets.”  I said, “If I ordered someone on the internet I would make sure she had a better name than Minky.”  The library said, “If you don’t come and pick up Minky she said she will, ‘eye fuck you with the deer head that crawls out her cunt.’

I went and picked up Minky at the library.  I cried the whole way home.  Minky was an awful presence.  She forced me to read her tattoos and watch her violate herself.  I called a poet in the MFA program to find out what I should do.  They said, “There’s not much you can do.  She is what she is.”

I continued reading.  Every day I would come home and find Minky with a new fetish.  Yesterday I came home and she was fingering a whale.

I called some more poets, “Am I missing something?  What is the point of Minky?”  They all said, “Keep reading.  It’s visceral.  Everything about Minky is right on the page.  You’re not missing anything.”

I’ve continued reading.  I’ve stuck Minky in the corner.  She seems less shocking.  Yesterday she said something about a goat.  I thought it was pretty interesting.