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This is a picture. There is a top hat throwing shadow on smeared makeup. There’s a cop car in the background and it’s falling behind. The mascara is flowing, as they say, and the time-traveling stopwatch hanging from the rear-view mirror is stuck at 12:38. How does a witch doctor drive a car? It’s a challenge. As all spells are.
The forks in the road are lightning pushing the curtain back into an entire foreign life of swamps, songs, leafless damp trees and true connections between people and vampires. There are choices leaping up onto the windshield like buckets of paint thrown by enthusiastic past-tense teenagers. Sure. Call me forgetful. Wash it out.
If gas pedals can become friends, time can squeeze a wet shirt dry. Whatever symbol of predestination mixing with random chance calls to you. Hunting for fish with a shotgun in a glass-bottomed boat. Let’s keep this between us, I said, because if we do manage to keep it between us, we’ll never stop hugging.
Now I’m here, ready for orders, open to suggestions, receiving and alone and all I hear is silence from the sky. I’m open.
Open to the lizards dragging store owners out from behind cash registers. Open to the mouse-clicking legions of dead-eyed futures crowding up my viewports. Open to staying low in the cornfields to avoid the locusts blotting out the sun like I would hug the floor to breathe during a house fire. Open to drinking out of a skull. Open to the situations that will unfurl like country’s flags and ask me for citizenship.
I can’t flat-out ask myself for shadows. I need a hint, some mint jelly, and an appointment. My eye sockets are electrical outlets and you’re a two-year old with a knife. Tesla, meet the storm. We’re all foreigners. Bouquets are for valentines and fine wines. Let’s skip that course of action.
I’ll tie a noose around my finger so I don’t forget. Every time I spread butter on a pancake, I’ll think of your begging mouth, the mascara running down your witch-doctor face as you drive away. I’ll remember that moment, timeless through repetition, clearer than what I had for dinner yesterday. I’ll remember the cops failing to catch you when you fell into the sunset.
I’d admit the existence of magic to get you back.
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The forks in the road are lightning pushing the curtain back into an entire foreign life of swamps, songs, leafless damp trees and true connections between people and vampires. There are choices leaping up onto the windshield like buckets of paint thrown by enthusiastic past-tense teenagers. Sure. Call me forgetful. Wash it out.
If gas pedals can become friends, time can squeeze a wet shirt dry. Whatever symbol of predestination mixing with random chance calls to you. Hunting for fish with a shotgun in a glass-bottomed boat. Let’s keep this between us, I said, because if we do manage to keep it between us, we’ll never stop hugging.
Now I’m here, ready for orders, open to suggestions, receiving and alone and all I hear is silence from the sky. I’m open.
Open to the lizards dragging store owners out from behind cash registers. Open to the mouse-clicking legions of dead-eyed futures crowding up my viewports. Open to staying low in the cornfields to avoid the locusts blotting out the sun like I would hug the floor to breathe during a house fire. Open to drinking out of a skull. Open to the situations that will unfurl like country’s flags and ask me for citizenship.
I can’t flat-out ask myself for shadows. I need a hint, some mint jelly, and an appointment. My eye sockets are electrical outlets and you’re a two-year old with a knife. Tesla, meet the storm. We’re all foreigners. Bouquets are for valentines and fine wines. Let’s skip that course of action.
I’ll tie a noose around my finger so I don’t forget. Every time I spread butter on a pancake, I’ll think of your begging mouth, the mascara running down your witch-doctor face as you drive away. I’ll remember that moment, timeless through repetition, clearer than what I had for dinner yesterday. I’ll remember the cops failing to catch you when you fell into the sunset.
I’d admit the existence of magic to get you back.
tags