Statistics and feces are dead
composites of an ace in the hole,
mirrors of insipid vehemence.
A mushroom of despair.
"Ruffles have ridges, "
says the rigid strand of DNA,
that rides high upon the castle wall,
bucking and kicking his way
to the pleasure dome.
"Sho 'nuff," God whispers and draws
his gun like a whispering sea otter.
"It's goin' be piles a sawdust
or strands of membrane I'ma dancin' on,"
and spits out the side of his mouth.
God is still a dog and a fish and a flimsy three-way tie
in the reckless minds of human relics.
You're a dog's dog, and that's a damn good
dog to be.
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