The Oink Electric (Dada Pig No. 8)

pink lightning dressed as patience,
charcoal whisper under snout.
two black windows—closed, but humming.

the ears, yes: twin antennas of nonsense.
they receive only moonlight and missing verbs.

syntax collapses. hooray!
a face untranslates itself.

somewhere behind the paper
a cosmic radio croaks: oink = origin.

the pig blinks in ultraviolet Morse,
spells “maybe” upside down.

I salute with a crayon.
the color replies in circles.

dawn arrives too politely,
so we eat it—
whole.

no god, no logic,
only the neon grunt
of being perfectly here.