November 30/30 - 24/30 - Falling, part sixteen

I’m not a force of gravity but I play one on t.v. The devil’s background check is a yellow-paint promise given to children on the wrong side of a needle to string them along, Christmas by Christmas, to a flash gordon future that will not be what they were promised. All predictions are fake beards. Every halo is just as good at cutting bread as it is at saving lives. I’m no connoisseur but your teeth look like they could do some damage. Looking at you, I really, really get that I’m one phone call away from an ambulance that will take too long to get here.

Fight fire with money. Go ahead. Fold diseased paper cranes out of dumpster napkins. Let’s make unique snowflakes melt on our common tongues. The continents are shelves and we are books. We’re not in a play, we are a play. And there’s a big difference.

Turn up that collar and take over the earth. You’re the only one who can. Keep the laser gun holstered and stare them all down. When there’s a will, there’s a next of kin. When there’s a way, there’s a way out. Each arch of back that you strut forward kills the names of children. Emperor’s concubine. Ticklish apocalypse. Pear slices on a prehistoric bone. Mail me an apology in letters cut from magazines for the blind. Roll me through your typewriter and label me lost.

If it wasn’t for the flashlight of your smile, I wouldn’t know my way home.



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