a little less road kill
a little more cough syrup
the curve of space replaced
by macaroni noodles
and hot glue
there is a way that everything fits together
I swear
your sticky hands will find it
In the filthy afternoon mask
of another day not spent at home
I know
most 6 year olds still believe in parachutes and lifeboats
this time next month call me riptide
and I will call you banana peel
we will nickname each other
in a way our mothers would disapprove
It is not an accident to hunt pink cotton or green army men
It is joypopping mindbeams
so feast your fingers harmoniously
it is not your fault
we are all stumbling, futureless guzzling inner riots
you grin at your terminus
and divinity grins back
in the folk rock of everything all the time
in the avocado pit tea
in the drag of the carcinogens you don’t take anymore
there are far easier ways to say something else is killing you
than not checking for your parachute
