1
I am studying for a math test into the wee hours of the night because I don’t understand it. Numbers are rigid, so they should be priests, so they should be celibate and not have all these relationships that burden the right lobes of my brain.

2
My pupils, after a few hours of half-assed gazes upon trig identities, have become triangles, upside-down triangles, the apex carves crosses into my nose.

3
My mind is liquidating itself. I have not felt this lurking strangeness in months. I intended to listen to Pixies on repeat til I wake and magically find it.

4
Instead Jesus screamed my name, the motherfucker, where are my spatulas now that I need them? Blue nipples, blue roses, blue velvet, the deviancy the anxiety they gave the tha blues.

5
I became very lonely because numbers just don’t speak to me, ya dig? But when I picked up the kryptonite phone, Bob Dylan caressed my heart with musings on girls from the north country, so I listened and melted. The wind hit heavy on my borderline and blew my pixie dust astray.

6
I became plagued by schizophrenic portraits of the walrus. I don’t know how it came to this. The walrus used to rape me, and I sang. Then somehow I became the walrus. It was the first snow, and lust put icicle tusks in my nostrils, and I declared “I am the walrus.” I used to write the poetry, eat the pizza, and accept divine violation of my anal soul. Now I must be the harbinger, fuck in zoos, fuck Laurie Foos, and spread the seed.

The tree-hugging walrus
escapes the clay shark,
embarks Noah’s ark,
licks the bark,
inserts an icicle tusk into his nostril,
quotes Lennon,
sips Bacardi, inserts a pretzel,
quotes Lenin,
doesn’t feel awful, is nasally sodomized
by tinfoil antennae,
stuffs the pizza in the falafel,
pokes the rosy thorn
until skin opens and secretes,
plucks the petals of the wilting flower,
tosses them like confetti
about the isolation ward
and hopes a schizophrenic
will fashion a garland
for the winner of the lover’s war.