Poem Cereal

Without further fan-fare, here is the gripping, nonsensical conclusion to your serial poem,

We Rewolf, PA, pt 2

I confess

My baby is a toad’s butt,
A toad’s butt is a green cigarette, mariuanna, virgin mary, Christ is coming, there are many devils,

Rush Limbaugh.

(Toad’s butt; a slang way to name ‘Rush Limbaugh.)

So, if the social transfigured be heaven, and we can choose anything,

choose not to choose, never consciously choose but still happened.

Or as if never happened? wtf does that mean?

In the strict sense of a simile,

is history like memory?

Both have forgotten

aspects,

geo-politico

malice

malice appears,

a nightmare character

the form which upon seeing frightens

thrills up the neck hair,

I saw him.

Once he was a he,

he became me,

walking behind me on the path,

watching, maybe in the woods now.

Maybe has multiplied?

Maybe its not a dopple, maybe ‘it’ is only wearing my clothes,

a psycho-logical tactic!

Maybe I see myself socially as scary, wearing this big black hoody

and custom wing tips slipped over my little goat’s feet.

My fear, which is another man inside myself, has slipped out.

Trying it on, the world that is. He is a medusa tome

I petreify wood. Now I am turning it all into stone,

I ran home to seek help from my wife…

(Our ‘hero’ is mistaken, in his mounting panic, he assumes the figment is a he, but we will never know, maybe the beast were rilly a female, if it even had a sex. Maybe it was a non-sexual being. If it were real, that is to say.)