Who says there’s no sense of humor
in these lawyer-ridden fumigation circus
tents? The paranoiac knows better
than the rest of us, but I would be lying
if I claimed not to see the beady, nefarious
intelligence of these unseen arachnodactyl
hands, stroking bearded chins until erosion
renders them prepubescent. Five senses
add up to a playground of heartbreaking
half-realized memories to pull the wings
from. You see, They lure you onto these
streets with the smell of beer and floral
hand moisturizer, keep you there with
a single cut and twist, rendering one-
sided strips of infinity that would raise
the gorge of the most fiercely dogmatic
mathematician. Have pity, Dr. Mobius
whines! That said, by all means, keep
coming back, keep driving by the same
mailboxes and rusting basketball hoops.
It will change, detail by tiny detail, the toy
dogs speciating into wolves, their barks
too easily mistaken for laughs as your
drunken cognition tries to resolve these
two overlapping worlds. Recall: for some
knots, there is no recourse but the sword.