.isn't a quiet person.
Feral Man
He lives under the house.
We feed him newspaper clippings.
He revels in stories of Somali pirates.
He eats L. Cohen limb from limb,
The lovesongs of Joan Osborne make him pant.
Republicans work him to a lather.
He is the greatest Son of Democracy.
Afghanistan, American Idol, the same to him.
The discerning receptacle of "institutional learning facilities".
The fawned-over child of the miracle parents.
The passed over pet of the high-rises.
His only obstacle the utility bill.
Why can't he meet his match?
Why can't we?
We will love him only when he has reached the unknown limit of his
unnamed prey.
The contours of his bagged offal full of feathers and tweets.
His moods swing cathedral cantabile.
He thinks Voltaire and Lisbon are an answer to Jeopardy.
He is as affectionate as a baby bat.
His sonar effective everywhere but the basement of wells.
Lucky they are poisoned by the seersucker children of the D.A.R.
It is difficult to spread his wings in such a crawlspace.
Ashy beams. Salty piers.
The termite trails from the prehistory of devotion.
Females unsure of his attentions.
He spooks only children and people.
The house's collapsing weight, all potential.
He is an easy subtenant.
Health care, he don't need no pinche healthcare,
He has his own waste to eat.
And a pretty efficient machine he is.
We whisper "Mynanmar" through the floorboards.
We can hear him prestidigitate in excitement.
He doesn't know what that means, nor do we, but he does it with gusto to our admiration.
His incuriosity in a less enlightened era might have started border wars.
Our borders pervious as salt and tissue.
We are in the Perpetual War.
The canine anticipation of catastrophe and hope.
The insect antennas for love and lost.
The compound eyes of "Deal or No Deal", kneel d'or toe-heel.
Hiroshima on installments.
The seismic travel of desolation up and down his spine.
What a perfect world.
Limbaugh's last hope. Orwell’s petri dish.
The canapes of X, the petit fours of Y,
the antipasti of Z, the last course for some A.
Aperitif, coffee, soup, nuts, it’s all the same to his keepers.
Do not mention the rites of the vomitory during wartime.
Feral Man
He lives under the house.
We feed him newspaper clippings.
He revels in stories of Somali pirates.
He eats L. Cohen limb from limb,
The lovesongs of Joan Osborne make him pant.
Republicans work him to a lather.
He is the greatest Son of Democracy.
Afghanistan, American Idol, the same to him.
The discerning receptacle of "institutional learning facilities".
The fawned-over child of the miracle parents.
The passed over pet of the high-rises.
His only obstacle the utility bill.
Why can't he meet his match?
Why can't we?
We will love him only when he has reached the unknown limit of his
unnamed prey.
The contours of his bagged offal full of feathers and tweets.
His moods swing cathedral cantabile.
He thinks Voltaire and Lisbon are an answer to Jeopardy.
He is as affectionate as a baby bat.
His sonar effective everywhere but the basement of wells.
Lucky they are poisoned by the seersucker children of the D.A.R.
It is difficult to spread his wings in such a crawlspace.
Ashy beams. Salty piers.
The termite trails from the prehistory of devotion.
Females unsure of his attentions.
He spooks only children and people.
The house's collapsing weight, all potential.
He is an easy subtenant.
Health care, he don't need no pinche healthcare,
He has his own waste to eat.
And a pretty efficient machine he is.
We whisper "Mynanmar" through the floorboards.
We can hear him prestidigitate in excitement.
He doesn't know what that means, nor do we, but he does it with gusto to our admiration.
His incuriosity in a less enlightened era might have started border wars.
Our borders pervious as salt and tissue.
We are in the Perpetual War.
The canine anticipation of catastrophe and hope.
The insect antennas for love and lost.
The compound eyes of "Deal or No Deal", kneel d'or toe-heel.
Hiroshima on installments.
The seismic travel of desolation up and down his spine.
What a perfect world.
Limbaugh's last hope. Orwell’s petri dish.
The canapes of X, the petit fours of Y,
the antipasti of Z, the last course for some A.
Aperitif, coffee, soup, nuts, it’s all the same to his keepers.
Do not mention the rites of the vomitory during wartime.