the backdrop of consciousness
is blaring orchestral
fractophony hung
loosely like a phantom
in the corner of a Dalí bedroom.
existence is an opinion: an onion
we can only see entirely
by slicing it in half,
sautéing with a splash of salt
ground black pepper,
a thigh from the meat sack
(won’t be needing that anyway)
cover and let cook on medium for
two millenia, stirring frequently.
look closer at the darkness.
there’s nothing there
to be scared of.
nothing.
the tiger’s dinner is the dandelion’s breakfast.
the bee has a pouchfull of pollen,
dear pistil,
the trigger you pull on makes seed.