Twelve Nuns Barking at an Eggplant

    and other Pre-Migraine Hallucinations

The velvet complex: a tower for each fold, a nook and dip

for your catatonic self splayed beneath the broiler. A church

full of stuffed dogs and crystal stem wear, at war with the idea

of harmony. A cellophane scarf betraying a raw jugular. Swallow.

Scratch. Swallow. Ego casserole, and twice-baked skin loaf.

Honey, I've cooked. The hunger pang, oh god the hunger pang--

won't it ever go away? We can't all have toast. A set of unclaimed

dentures floating in a bowl of creamed corn. A tired mother

spoon-feeding the smile to her baby. The Pope is back

from the Land of Vampires. He wanders through a used car lot

and plays pocket pool while the people of the world mechanically nod.

Whose bacon is that frying on the roof of the car? A baby

with a briefcase, screaming obscenities at the television

as he watches his stock plummet. You offer him a cigar

but he grunts and soils himself. Call it a joyride, taking in

this rudimentary rubix cube, this hurricane of flesh, of soul.

No way out. Piece it together, row-by-row. An arthritic grandmother

squatting behind a trashcan in Central Park, laying eggs

and shrieking as they tear her insides apart. Twelve nuns

sitting in the back right pew, barking at an eggplant.

A man with a peg-leg, casting a fishing line into the middle stall

of a public restroom. And the same yellow pigeon

from last week's nightmare, licking the Statue of Liberty's eyes

with its warm, hairy tongue. All the while Aunt Jeannie stands

in the corner drawing swastikas on the wall

with a stick of frozen butter, pausing long enough

to lick her fingers after each greasy, deliberate line.