fools, and the obedient.
None lead, or follow: all drift
together on unnoticed currents
far outside the sacred.
What do I call the sacred?
A fist inside a grain of rice.
A flower popping within
a flickering oven.
A prolapsed moonlit sky
leaking bats like tears.
I am the enemy here.
Unseen entertainer of the spheres
with many lips, my rebirth
is a drug trip, having taken this body.
I stack the books of their dead god
with the countenance of some
vibrant poison frog. There's no home
here in their fog of law: I am their
extinct claw scraping letters raw.
Their underworld can't be counted.
I am hound and denizen
of its accelerating corridors.
A thief's unwanted seed
is my genetic core:
I just mind the store.
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