My monosyllabic life—the faint
screech of a hawk having the joy
of his prey,
somewhere beside the statuesque mountain.
I have never known fear.
I construct cocoons for five dollars each,
chilled coffins for five cents.
The banality of spice seasoning atmosphere,
tossed continent at every place setting.
I dine in my nest of cylinders and pistons,
but today there is a feast
at the hatter’s house,
and I am invited if I bring my kill.
I never look at what I devour,
I don’t want to swallow the
I am the raptor in the rafters
of the hatter’s mind,
his goggles giving him