I do know one and one is never two, but a version of one.
One and one is one evolved. I swear this under penalty of death.
On the night of April 10, 2016, I listened to
abandoned radiators spit up unchewed rot. I
stumbled with castrated lions on lustful safaris.
I sarcastically granted the soil erotic wishes,
dandelioned roses, inclement pardons void of absence.
Now, sixteen centuries later, I stand trial for this.
Trace the pattern of your smile across drunken skies,
carefully remembering blurred indentations that
bluntly dent Manhattan’s perimiter as seen from Phoenix.
Most testimonies break down when laughter erupts tightly.
Authorities are summoned. Their existential
buttcheeks blink like puppies stoned on language.
I speak only the truth.
I swear this under penalty of my breath.
