Waking Up Green

I long for the days when the tongue transmutes into a V-shaped
fly catcher, and the skin into a scaly verdant armor, and the mind
into a forest of fleeting moments, and the limbs into prehensile branches
searching for the secrets of the wind, and the pillow into a primordial
temple, and the posters into mysterious vistas, and the coffee beans
into dancing igneous dreams, and the toothbrush into a crystalline
tributary, and the winter coat into the sheath of night, and that dread
that assails oneself moments before the lock is turned into a new sense
of self, an emerald heart beating inside a reptilian facade. I want to know
the ways of the Lizard King.