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 quill

that left streak marks across Bates motel.