stillfugue

There is an orange frog,
with furry skin, not slimy,
with that forked tongue,
just two tines, nothing
useful, but those sharp tines,
they stole my eyes, and
black cotton weaves, like
old baseballs, sit in the
sockets, reaching for love,
looking up, not seeing, but
feeling the bird in descent,
like a hawk by the sound,
and he lands on my desk,
cackling at me as the Russian
infantry marches on sidewalks
made of donut glaze, whistling,
the infantry, a tune that’s
sad, dedicated to all of the
aromatic corpses they carry
like so many sacks of flour,
as the old bird squirts his
liquidy shit, reminding me
of all of the soldiers inside
this building who, it only
seems, are working to
make me more meaningless
than I was, if it is possible
to be more meaningless
than meaningless, increasing
the hopelessness, and I can’t
jump out my window, finish
it all, for it’s sealed, the window,
and there is more worthless
work to be done while the
trillions of gray cannon balls
drop from the ceiling tiles,
indefatigable symbols of
my lack of hope.

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