A Fina Mule

I know
that the skin of your soup
bladder aquarium helmet pillow
is completely transparent
and reveals a myriad
dead fish made life-like
by wind-up exoskeletons
of pressed vegetable
bullion.

I know that
you are sanctified
by a kind of churchy
lurchy doo-da
that somehow
has managed to install
itself
in the brains
of various
yaqui quipu
pu-pu platter
clatterings
renegading
as arts professors
or whatever you
people call yourself
inside the mix max
mux cluck
of Madame Blavatsky's
solar evolution peony.

I know that
dotted lines
hover throughout all
time and space
and are the food
of pacman toadies

pacman
who appears
as a blond afro spheroid
in many of my detourned
images of Canaletto

sipping lemon juice
"somehow"
oh! maybe it's a belt
with a drink holster and a
straw

in a gondola

I think about gondolas
with giant lacquered
cupolas that look like
mosquitoes