Body sleeps. Psyche creeps. It all happens

when I’m not home. “You’re Zoot. Sax is your ax.”

“Uh, Zoot’s skipped a groove again.” My atoms

spread. DNA unwinds. Protons climax.

Slinky cells divide. This is pillow talk.

If I only had pillows. I have cats.

They’re like what a meatloaf and a warlock

baby looks like. Mistress Purrfect Paws. That’s

totally something that could happen, eh?

That “eh” indicates that I’m from Quebec,

which I’m not. At least when I’m awake.

I can’t recall dreams. Just the rum wordplay

they leave behind. Just, yo broke joke, Molech.

Just Zoot on his sax. Just cells and cell’s ache.