I bark when outside, at the edges of
space. This morning, rapid junk only
slides shoulder-to-shoulder with the
hero, Jar Jar Binks, whose thighs
straighten then fork. The crowning bacon
pulps. He nurses himself in himself, vampire
insects held in flavor touch, small sun articulating
word-field ripe for resilient jughead.
Boris Karloff grows distracted in a
German wellness center, plucks large-scale
Nirvana as if from a car wash. Book club
grunts could not begin to change milk set in modular
stone without changing the stone itself.
Fungi at his feet chug with ill-regard to the
human soul's LED a gentleman doesn't know how
to sell to disinterested chordates swarming mad
as hell yelling at plants, bacteria, at the snake
vibrating past in the Western dust sad
and laden with the horrors seen glowing in lichen
dreams that forever dwell beneath the quillthat left streak marks across Bates motel.