I am on fire. No, I mean literally.
Alcohol funny-car meet combustible jujube.
Meet Ready Freddie, the legal owner
of an incomprehensible bust of carbon.
A bargain at any price—this kick of joy.
Imagine how rice must feel at weddings.
It’s like, darling, earlier, when we watched
that duck on a crutch exiting the school bus
my initial thought was What the...?
which was surely my best thought
until the Oaxacian taco truck and a few beers
later your organic, polar bear underwear.
Have you ever had a dream that felt so real?
Have you ever taken a trip that went so far?
Have you ever fallen into a painting
that was so breeding cardinal hopping
through butterfly meadow? If so,
why do you currently live in a snow globe?
Seriously? The theory of pretty?
Out of every two hundred commuters, one
will spit-shine his own burgundy wingtips.
Most of the others just sit and stare.
Imagine how the daily news feels surrounded
by all that scuffing. It feels like some prior
minor damage to the central wiring may
be triggering fierce sparks in the dream silo.
Cue meadowlark flight. Pan to smoking tree.
Teach me the difference between nodding
and empathy. I am afraid of most things
that have teeth and smile. I want my eyes
to be open when we burst from the sun.