“They won’t attack us here in the Indian graveyard.”
I love that moment. And I love the moment
when I climb into your warm you-smelling
bed-dent after you’ve risen. And sunflowers,
once a whole field and I almost crashed,
the next year all pumpkins! Crop rotation,
I love you. Dividing words between syl-
lables! Dachshunds! What am I but the inter-
section of these loves? I spend 35 dollars on a CD
of some guy with 15 different guitars in his shack
with lots of tape delays and loops, a good buy!
Mexican animal crackers! But only to be identified
by what you love is a malformation just as
embryonic chickens grow very strange in zero
gravity. I hate those experiments on animals,
varnished bats, blinded rabbits, cows
with windows in their flanks but obviously
I’m fascinated. Perhaps it was my early exposure
to Frankenstein. I love Frankenstein! Arrgh,
he replies to everything, fire particularly
sets him off, something the villagers quickly
pick up. Fucking villagers. All their shouting’s
making conversation impossible and now
there’s grit in my lettuce which I hate
but kinda like in clams as one bespeaks
poor hygiene and the other the sea.
I hate what we’re doing to the sea,
dragging huge chains across the bottom,
bleaching reefs. Either you’re a rubber/
gasoline salesman or, like me, you’d like
to duct-tape the vice president’s mouth
to the exhaust pipe of an SUV and I hate
feeling like that. I would rather concentrate
on the rapidity of your ideograms, how
only a biochemical or two keeps me
from becoming the world’s biggest lightning bug.