My morning drive is full of rat dreams.
They suck the nutrients out of canvas,
chewing on modern art and bowing to whatever
Miocene impulse makes them spit up the paint.
My hominid follicles are freaking, puffing me up
while my made-up rodents snip wires with their teeth.
They break the radio. It's fixed on fabricated country
where pop larynges give voice to pop lyrics.
The rats make sure to phone in all their favorites.
Here's your one chance, fancy rat, black harbinger
squeaking your way through more second comings
than Jesus Christ—you know they laid a trap for you,
for the rat with hands, the smart rat, the dream-rat, Rattus rattus
in a land of Chinese paint and city-doves gone wild.
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