unicorn icicle dog, are you hiding
in the mirrored rocks, cube citadel
in the distance, a perfect ice cube
of snow?
your red tongue is reflected, refracted
on the myriad surfaces, fire kaleidoscopic,
a hollow gram of photons, but,
also your black gumbs are showing.
your one red eye and gray snout,
and the indiscernible way you crouch
among the uneven images, camouflage,
your name weirding howl, and
softly you pant the fictions.
Fiction abounds, either in simple
or complex form, and fixity of things
is organic too.
Divine fixity abounds
and is fruit.
A program
cannot understand
the need for mirrored fruit.
Fil(e)istine.
The radiocracy's
curmudgeonly and temporal
present.
