Alpaca Lips Meow

Once I lived in Marlon Brando’s home—he was dead.

I spoke to him through fortune cookiesin amber light, cradling a bowlof sentences from beyond.

He told me nice things likebeauty is your strength andyour optimism will be rewarded.

I replied with a nonchalant thumbs-up.

Each broken crescent doled outincreasingly complicated formulas—

the tentative tongue tastes tacky andmay darkness be a flooded floor of autumn’s leaves.

Then there was a hair-raising detonation,a real pop, and the multitudes of moon-creasesun-pleated with paper-like thin bodies spilling out.

Have the unperturbed calmnessof some notable anthropologistregarding the whole ordeal of horror andpray that your inky parts scumbleyour tender footed printsbefore you turn coats.

He is a many-mouthed ghostlicking my ears, nostrilswith thickening tongue,and I could see him therein his heavy cavityand his words.