the frog who could see
Someone asks, Exploding frogs again? Nobody answers, but the actor looks just like my brother. Photograph of war-silver skin flashes. I contemplate the nutritional value of barley. The afternoon moves by slowly but not painfully so.
Many threads begin here and I wonder if they ever twine their fingers into fabric, if they are like office days: similar at root but separate and rarely connected, except for the occasionally discernable carry-over task. Or if the threads indeed are tightly finger-twined but the view is so microscopic that the whole weave is impossible to see until death do us part.
I was born without telescope or bird’s-eye, more of an insect with human neuroses and immune system and occasional violet flare-ups that settle as words on a page, dull head head pain, or backwash in beer bottles. Violet shades sky and carpet, eye and jacket, hair registering newly into the ecosystem.
Once upon a time an ant from Florence was captured from the cement between stones in a city road. Men wearing goggles and white dresses injected the ant with various human stem cells. Shortly thereafter a brown-haired puella crashed out of an egg. The men trimmed her limbs to four and taught her how to walk upright. When she could complete a lap around Duomo, conversing successfully with at least three people on the street—a man, a woman, a child, the men shipped her to America. Having bottom-bounced through the middle part of the country, she bobs in New Jersey, where she speaks in awkward English syntax, hallucinates microbic activity in both psyche and skin, and longs for vin with pizza slices to go. The Colosseum. Often she feels like she is in a museum.
A frog hops across the screen from left to right. It is purple. It is sheen. Tongue rolled out, it offers, Ciao. Demands, Vide.
Many threads begin here and I wonder if they ever twine their fingers into fabric, if they are like office days: similar at root but separate and rarely connected, except for the occasionally discernable carry-over task. Or if the threads indeed are tightly finger-twined but the view is so microscopic that the whole weave is impossible to see until death do us part.
I was born without telescope or bird’s-eye, more of an insect with human neuroses and immune system and occasional violet flare-ups that settle as words on a page, dull head head pain, or backwash in beer bottles. Violet shades sky and carpet, eye and jacket, hair registering newly into the ecosystem.
Once upon a time an ant from Florence was captured from the cement between stones in a city road. Men wearing goggles and white dresses injected the ant with various human stem cells. Shortly thereafter a brown-haired puella crashed out of an egg. The men trimmed her limbs to four and taught her how to walk upright. When she could complete a lap around Duomo, conversing successfully with at least three people on the street—a man, a woman, a child, the men shipped her to America. Having bottom-bounced through the middle part of the country, she bobs in New Jersey, where she speaks in awkward English syntax, hallucinates microbic activity in both psyche and skin, and longs for vin with pizza slices to go. The Colosseum. Often she feels like she is in a museum.
A frog hops across the screen from left to right. It is purple. It is sheen. Tongue rolled out, it offers, Ciao. Demands, Vide.
3 Comments:
i need a distraction like this. does it come in mauve?
i believe it does. i'll tell my people it's high priority. you should feel the effects soon.
excellent.
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