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Some ridiculous twig.
I don't know. A president's
dick or something.
I prove to windows and pencils
we are intent. We humans
should have sold the
Hubble Telescope by now.
Somebody could have
prevented Philip K. Dick's
novels the way you
could have prevented
my breakdown, my angel
wings or my murder
of Timothy Treadwell
when I was several grizzly
bears. But now
all these things
are moot. Which I think
means I'm coming
to get you. Stay
right where you are,
inside that rotting
butterfly of cosmic
energy. The one
you call a taxi cab.