I am entwined in, with, and by objects,
the small cute-face people  – pompous face ­–
the no-face people, fear or startle-gesture face.
The thing is.  Every time I see his name the world
slashes into ribbons. It was my name after all. Blue
lights flash in the dusk of gawds (gourds) that
are never appreciated as viscera.  I wail: there
are pipettes in me; these drugs attack
the conceptual mind. I’m up at four his name
cutting ribbons into my dust and stagnant
memory energy.  The fuzzy heart is glimpsed
barely in the insect-heavy lights of  haunted
knowledge, but I was just… a text.  What
would make me feel safe’s a total clampdown
on all cell walls. What’s today? Discomfort
squirrels crazily in the human shadow room
where I ache like an ache of strychnine,
arsenic, ptomaine, etcetera. In fact, there

are many varieties of variety

to choose from: 

Baby Boo
Big Moon
Black Zucchinu
Blaue Banane
Early prolific straightneck
Futsu Black Rinded
Jack O’ Lantern
Orange Früchte
Sweet Meat
Vegetable Spaghetti
White Custard
Yellow Hubbard
The decibel lilt of these
in the night garden, dehiscent
and gaily gnarled!
Plumbed murk
of seedy flesh: strings
of lite ribbons
of lonely
and art-like
Who can trust
what? The rain
is a machine.
Your soft silver hair
brushes my abdomen.
This is part of “love.”

I suppose I do mind
the clutter, its dense machinic 
excess, but I can’t help it.

I want my goat back.

I ask you:

How can I be
the relatively large giraffe
I know I am?

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