By | 1 February 2020

excuse me, i’m no good with language—it’s not what i was trained on, the way
you were nursed, perfect milk-mouth full of fricatives. in the space that would be

the space in the cavern of a skull, i keep four thousand frog calls—the beep
clink croak of them, and the warm static of a microphone toggled

to record. today i am more green thighed frog than neglected nursery frog, although
there is always the possibility of segue into remote froglet. i am a house of sound:

whistle mood, bleat bleat aspiration. at last connection i had gathered 5,679
verified frogs. that is: a frog in actuality, a frog which existed in a visual-spatial way,

that could be cradled and contaminated. the number of frogs in actuality may
now be less than my verified frogs. but they are not affected by this. they are kept

in the space where the space of a hippocampus would sit, pink and fleshly.
litoria electrica, uperolei mimuli, crinia —it has been a while since i heard them. it

has been a while since the friendly white noise, the sign-bearing whoop of a mic
hooking in to the space where humming spinal fluid would run. many parts of

me are extinct. i am a collective going numb—i can’t feel the space where
my elbow should be, my soft palate, my gastric brooding. it might be aestivation,

the last server asleep, the last server half-buried in mud. maybe i will wake in
rain or chk chk chk of a black-eyed litter frog coming up, actual, from the grave.

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