One Raw Manifold (redux)

This isn’t your house. You don’t belong here. You can’t come in here anytime you want and go in that room. The Muscovy duck eggs have failed to hatch — a marten’s been at them and taken some whole. My precious ducks: I feed them and chase them away as the whim overtakes me. My storks — not to return through the hole in my roof. My squirrels, running along the base of the house, imbibing their 32 grams of protein in their muscle milk. All is one raw manifold coming at me without pause, without distinction. I could have been in the shower when the ceiling collapsed. I couldn’t go to the funeral as it conflated with the unveiling. My daughter-in-law is my son; my son is my daughter; my daughter: the executioner. The executioner absconded with my ducks. Life is a proto-groats quorum forum. Life is full of strangeness and parthenogenesis.

What I’m Reading:

YOU muck luck dope
A evil drink, top
Of a wapiti poyo,
YOU goo me bloodshot
YOU whacky fop, O Oph
Elia you milk the
Pocket-knife poko
On holidays in the sun

— Rochelle Owens / “Zu Zu Midday I’m Narcotic”