My brother is a rat. A big one,
kind of lozenged in the throat. At times,
he moves around a bit with sudden jumps,
epiglottal stops—jerking around a little
like a frightened chair.
No, as one’s mother would say,
you may not. Once in a while,
I get an acidic taste, which I figure
is a waste of sense. Without a periscope,
but looking side to side, as if to mix stuff up.
Let me tell you, it doesn’t work. Sometimes I pretend
that mine are the tarpon’s hands. I’m not wearing
these hands home. That big rat.
Falsified Pulses
Published
The Failures of a Non-Performer 