Incantation

Trance

Trance

Trance

Rip apart

            The layered

fabric we conviently

convinced upon the convention

to believe together

      we are all

still children clinging onto

a blankie made out of money

      we are all

a little intoxicated by the

fumes of the piles

of burning green paper

like (a moot point or) a

piece of stranded

cruise-by victim

piece of disintegrated

roadkill

falling through superimposed

landscapes of time

Maybe

mice could be juggernauts

or

Maybe

god could be a multicolored blob of

            breathable jello that eats

            poker chips

Let’s claw, then, claw our way

out of the cocoon of Karma

and escape frolicking into

      the

     

      illogically

      ineffible