Just imagine
That your job
Is to rub your entire body
On a flower one hundred times your size
All so you can go home at the end of the day
And make honey.
Stomachs Are Not Vacation Places for Food
Sometimes when the birds sound particularly lovely outside in the trees, singing against the overcast sky, I flip myself over so that I can walk around on my hands, and, if it's even possible, they sound somehow lovelier. What is happening inside my brain is this:
At first all the red inside me moves like slow motion snails, and for an instant that seems like a moment that is really just a second, all the squishy gadgets inside me are wondering just what the hell is going on, and then my veins turn into roller coaster rides for my blood, and every single blood cell has its hands in the air, going round the loops and turns and screaming 'Whoooooaaaaa!' And then wham! All at once they cram into my brain like spelunkers dropping into some sort of upside down, underground cave and their sudden entrance creates a momentary vacuum which results in a sonic boom that instantly eradicates all the thoughts that are normally careening around in my head like futuristic Tokyo hovercraft traffic, and in that miniscule fraction of a second that is already pulling away from me train-like, my ears open up a little wider and convey that far off singing to my brain a little clearer, and those little tiny creatures singing their great big songs, that used to just be the backdrop to my all-important existence, have suddenly become the purpose of the whole entire thing.
It Pours Like Polyester Rain in a Desert of Style
You stitch the seams unruly,
Glide the cloth onto your frame with care
And move calm through the swirl of moving bodies
With a wink and a blown kiss
In a slow spin that resembles gambling.
Your movements are slow motion flowers,
And the cloth explodes around your skin
In bursts of color,
Like you are wearing the fourth of July on your back.
This is no fairy tale.
You are true.
I have seen you
And you are true.
