SENSORY OVERRIDE

thus spoke the frog in the well:

these unwashed victories dangle gracelessly 

from the worm-eaten roots of the great sacred 

fig, branches rooted headfirst into the

soil from which we sprout, bowing to a sun 

in the needle-eye of a kaleidoscope. 

yes, we,

foolish trifles of the cosmic rift, are unable 

to settle upon a vantage point from which we

can see eye-to-eye with the fires of this 

celestial bird nesting somewhere amidst the 

roots, its duty to lay golden eggs in the fouled 

creases of our palms; those that wait the epoch 

of a day to hatch into dreams that eat away at

the joints with which we measure the hypocrisy 

of the world. 

but our 

perspective can only fold onto itself no more 

than seven unbroken strokes before it strains 

and uncoils into the most elusive and jigsawed 

of its forms, never seen but felt, deep within 

the jejune pits of the bruised, fruitless, pathetic 

suspensions we claim as flesh; our very own.