On a rainy morning King Kong
awakens under more hobo mind-control,
a post-menopausal assassin obeying
tired limbs. Sleep's silica – wet and stringy
after a long night castrating Tsetse flies.
On Halloween, in a crack house,
a hermit owns the dance floor.
What brought him here? And why
does he fit in so well? At
home, his Cuisinart had pointed him
to an unconscious awareness -
everyone is stupid.
Amidst the geometric shapes of
drunk friends there was something incongruous:
a yawning King Kong stomping past his window,
shattering it like a mosaic burp.
The hermit differentiated between smaller
triangles interspersed in brushing his teeth, and
a larger one in the harsh squeak of an enema.
Pythagoras saw them, too – ill from masturbating
with plutonium jelly in a Burger King – mentally
sporting Gwar shoulder pads.