is the modern synonym for skeleton.

Marrow, a euphemism for hive mind: 

on better days, hormones. 


Head. I’ve learned to assemble the wiring

from IKEA pictographs and indecipherable

craniums. Home. I am nowhere near human


now – the scalp smells like an oil slick,

gathering the corpses of unfortunate beasts

in its tendrils like a greedy cephalopod.



Colliculus = “little hill”


For now, I’m tapping holes in the preserved midbrain

and planting flags for each aspect of perception I conquer.


Once, ice picks hammered out personalities like pollution

and we fished in unknown lakes for the Lochness monster.

We used to read the brain as consequential bumps.

Now, we have to tackle the mind as a mountain range


named after devoured gods, mythological storms,

shapes irrelevant as constellations.  Erecting

religious symbolism for each psychological corpse


in absence, as if we’ll find something more meaningful

than chaos and asymmetry in the flesh.

Margarine Stars

Suddenly, I am an oasis of sucrose and butter –

pregnant with batter – smiling with lipstick of maple

glaze – yes, I have risen like a sunny dough

kneaded out like horizons under a dopamine surge

but there was expansion in the midst of doubt

and new planets, golden with lard, lace the cooling rack.


(I decided to take today a little less seriously after a lovely local fritter. It is Spring Break, after all, experimental duties aside. Also, I heartily recommend The Book of Donuts, edited by Brown and Latham. Like many proper lab animals, I am readily motivated and inspired by food!)


Let it be – we are comprised of pale, mismatched Legos

and upside-down jellyfish colored like smoke over a sunet

without the immortality.  Phantoms pulsate in the roots

and tell us to act – this is a transient sermon,

forming pulpits from membranes and organs from foramina.

There is no scenery like Apollo nesting in the vesicles.

This is how I’d recite the spine: lucent and finite

in its homily. Movement, the lucky alignment

of windows – breath, as busy junctions and fragile stoplights.


What are the symptoms of wanting

outlets to melt in your hand, stick

to your cheeks with cheap licorice?


I console my batteries like dying

crickets. Wait for that leg to sputter,

the mic in its thighs to gain power.


Pure water isn’t very conductive.

I dare you to drink from wetlands

that don’t transform your feet to rubber.


The electric tongue, stilled in new tar.

Lily pink lingers on your fingers, misty

on the matter if it was Advil or candy.


It’s not about healing anymore

but liquefying your spine into

rivers brimmed with biomass.

Chatter (Think Rabbit II)

I could diagnose your teeth as snowshoes.


I’ve never seen a blizzard bleed before,

but it’s thumped against my own skull

and forged tetanus

from cranial musk.


Spotted white, I know your throat is infected.


I’d call it water on the brain, but it’s simply

the Spring melt. The amygdala’s expansion,

Darwin’s way of summoning those hounds

through anything holy.

Mammalia is chronic.

The treatment is to speak

as lightly as the shedding.


Tread the line between therapy and poison
like huddled rattles
in the Black Hills.
Antidotes were made for arrows
and glands,

not the mouths
dripping in indigo and mice.

Thin strips of soggy pelt
mate ecstasy
with rigor mortis.

There’s expertise. There’s experimentation.
The difference lies in the electrons
lining pufferfish lungs.
There’s three protons
between breath and salt
and one distracted knife
between breathing or not.