we should be heroes, because then we could punish the world
for splitripping us apart like tangerine slices
or perfect sheets of a salt cube when the layers shift like prismatic
quilts and saline tectonic plates go crashing around
a popcorn kernel universe. we should just be
because bees are always honey-sweet like your rain-soaked
lips during a downpour of milk imported from Atlantis,
nectar of the impossible and ambrosia for the never-were.

we could be the juice of freshly squeezed adolescents,
noting the pressure gages of their sandy hearts as we
slither through the red and blue like a glass-blower's
last exhale into a masterpiece of transparency. we-
we could be the next tree to ignite for some lost prophet
and prove that bonsai Zen is still existing though it is
working out the kinks of spontaneous combustion
in the name of love.

but you see...

-when i say ‘you’ i mean me, and i have unfortunately contracted
a nasty case of blindness, the one they sometimes call temporary insani(ty with your cookies?).
ahh, yes, you’re nodding now,
and I’m writing this oozing pamphlet as your tour guide from within
the white walls of a heart-shaped asylum with cloister halls that chime
at the sound of our song and are perfectly upholstered
with the color of your eyes-

now we are was.