This morning I nearly stepped on a frog as big as an apple pie. It was crippled. On its back. An extremely unusual and mystical shimmering white stomach. It was beautiful, angelic and it sickens me. Like the insides of a monastery where the monks are practicing Kung Fu as their old master dreams of cockatoos flying away in the dawn. Girls go out to fetch the water. From far away. And love comes to them on these wide and yawning early fields. And they lie down and take it. In a fire of swords and birds made of bamboo suddenly inspired and glittering with falling shards. In the rain. And the streets turning into a reservoir of dying frogs. Thousands of them stacked high and wide. I have to walk over them-- fire and gas spewing up as I go. In the rain. Gas and fire. And the night stink. A dark spring. Blossoms rotted in tree crotches. Discarded hatchlings rotting. Like the bones of rats. You turn away and spit. Beauty's just a way to read this dying evil.
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