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.