Drippy Biscuits

You know what I like? Lire, pesos,
wheel money: roll, roll, roll!
It would be heaven on earth
to have my organs in alabaster hippos.
To be heartfelt, an homage
to the afterlife and covered in foil
hammered from gold slabs
answers all questions! Here
are the regal feet,
and the fans swatting the dry air
pulled into purple by the sun
dying in the river, dredging the truth
from the bottom,
between crocodile toes.



Generation Gap, But Not So Much

I will not tell you how scared I am of nutmeg,
or of how future generations might have mouths
opening from their necks, neglecting heads at all.
But think about it. The lamprey

that you shrieked at on that ill-fated field trip
could be your grandson, only landlocked
and well-mannered. Forget playing catch with that kid!
Watch your head! It would be

very easy for the little tyke to digest your face
before you even noticed. Here he comes.
Grabbing your ears and pulling up,
his precocious secretions digesting your expression.