Brains on Fire
Oh, the brain in my head,
which, when poked, folds,
is already folded, is fried.
It fries, the greasy smoke
rises from my ears, heads
directly up into the white
sky. Smoke signals sent
subconsciously to the half-
conscious angels who no
longer watch over us.
Most bide their time
playing games, like
cards of any kind,
while we cry,
knowing full well
that even if all of
the firemen on the
coast were called,
there’d be no fire
truck with a ladder
short enough to get
any of even the most
miniature firemen up and
into one of our ears to put
that fire out. We sniff,
getting a little bit hungry
with such an inhalation.
Fried brains smell tasty.
