I Got You, Babe

And still you drip your baby blue barf
                                                upon the glistening plane of our reality
and still
                                                still
                        still
                                                            still

You drip drop drip

            drop

Let me tell you still about my baby and its concealments:
Proffering spina bifida, cleft palate, molten fontanelle,
the harlequin of our nightmares,
foregrounding our background of ordered shelves and planes of exquisite complication,
a cabinet of curiosities,
the over-image palimpsests and prioritizes the incestuous washings and ablutions,
the extreme unctions, the exoticisms of holy chrism.           I exorcize you in the name…

A well-appointed kitchen provides a chef's palette confronting the dry desires of a harlequin baby bathed in liquamen, filleted and flayed, a filament. It's a fine line.
A Roman epicure pretends to know what to do with it, this wondrous ichthyotic treasure of a rich pink womb, fruits de mer of our nightmares.            Be a mother to him.
He needs a mother's care.

Or is it a collodion baby? Pent up pentimento in parchment, stuffed with pimiento,
sitting on the kitchen counter in the penthouse of a Byzantine aesthete glancing towards
the Dardanelles?

The undescended testicles make their journey
                                                                                                                                          down.
Baby blue patterns predominate across the planes of Dakota.
The testicles

            drop
                                    still            still

There at the black edges one hears a rattle, a whimper, a full-blown cry.            The ball

                                                                                                                                          falls
It's Year One!