Fever Poem by Hans Ostrom

The old woman who slid the pan
Of cookies into my brain's oven
Never came back. The cookies
Turned into black dots that float
Across my vision. I reek of burnt
Dough. I lie on my side like a

Buffalo who's reading Hegel
On a parched Kansas plain.
Invisible merchants empty
Microscopic vats of hot slime
On my neck and forehead.
A thin woman with cold fingers
Tickles my spine. Cute.

A chorus of angelic rats
Prevents me from nodding off.
I raise one hand
To conduct the performance
And pass out.