Hands covered in paint, applause to my left, a horn plays a lazy melody of triumph, baby grows inside of a sea shell. Someone keeps repeating, “wow” in the distance. I’m hit with a dose of glee amidst the the thought chaos of a spring storm. Taking a chance on the film of your life, who will fund it? What will be the return? Will it be of the Jedi? I hope so! Line green runs strong down the cracks of that rusty wooden shed out back that vacated souls flock to when the lights go out. Dark depth and light height are met in the middle by a frequency full of why, tied up in a chair and photographed in excellent hue. The applause grows louder, due perhaps to a forced silence, and implied rebirth, a demolished brick wall scattered amongst a grassy field. How fat the candle flames depends on how high the roof hangs. Do icicles form on your palms to stake out the path of the sled? One must out ride the Yeti or join him, the only other option is too grim to consider, and I haven’t purchased long johns. The number seven is written in chalk on a single brick and so I pick it up and take seven bites, and yes my mouth bleeds more than it should and I get dizzy and wonder if I’ll ever stare into the eyes of a lover again, never to return, never to disturb. Hair grows out of each of my fingertips a mile long and with a mighty braid my touch becomes tangled in conditioning. I suck on the teet of the mother cow who is gentle and proud, lowering myself to fit underneath her udder. I slide down on a parade of cheese which is forbidden to those who have not found the holy scripture in a tabloid. Breakfast tacos call me on my cell phone and sing, “If I ain’t got you…”

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