The terrible set of predictions 
my brain relies upon
to keep me crouched 
inside this hole
are indestructible,
but I know what a lemon is:
rats love eating them.
They prefer bitter rind
over sour pulp.
A rat will crave the flavors
first encountered in mom’s milk
for its whole life.
Define life, then define mom.
A mom is 25 rats tall. 
A life is a rat on fire. 
The totally spurious authority
of words is my business. 
The scent of citrus, 
gasoline, coal, mint, cut grass, 
hyacinth, Styrofoam, 
all linked with death,
perfume my thoughts. 
Symbols are so small 
compared to what I could smell 
12,000 years ago
when humans banged their heads
to water drip music.