And indeed I have shed the purple shell

I call my winter coat,

hooking it on one of two functional loops

in my front entryway,

trusting nothing but my own sense of

past experience,

setting off into the vast unpredictable region

of this earth

that I call home.

Out in a sweatshirt I go, unarmed and shivering

at the sight of the darkened sky,

though it being still technically morning.

I see anti-freeze liquid squirting in pathetic waves

across the windsheild, oddly...freezing.

Not much for anti-freeze, but he still doesn't get

that it will always cloud the dash

when you spray liquid

when it's chilly.

Where the hell is my purple shell?

Down the bitter streets he drove

until my destination is met, so early in the morning,

a simple thank you and a rub of the eyes

will have to do

with the nipple-hardening welcome of the outside again.

I wait.

And hours later we're down in the auditorium

that I've saved 8 lives in

one day one summer eve. I was wearing my suit

and swinging to find

the little red arrows pointing at the screaming polygons.

DAMN!

I remember screaming,

as I fly into the curtains of flame.

FIDDLESTICKS,

as my sister's old 3rd grade crazy little screechy-voiced teacher

used as a substitute

for anything at least a little bit vulgar.

it was once commented that fiddlesticks

is probably much more offensive

than any flying fuck that happens to roam about these lands.

I just might agree.

So theatre auditorium, flames put out

and screams faded,

holds my classmates and me, smaller

but cozier

that I originally remember seeing in my partially red shoes.

Alack and alas, the Jabberwocky with eyes of flame

did not whiffle through the tulgey wood,

or gurgle as it didn't come.

In fact, he got second place in a state competition

that nearly blew my cranium right down the bowels.

Yes.

You did read that correctly.

We sang musicals on the journey back to the make-shift movie theatre on Michigan Street.

many rolled their eyes and wished us to stop.

but singing is more powerful than yelling,

so they mostly lost,

until it all died down when we ate chemicals, grease, and sodium

on one of two stops.

The other stop was for artifical flavoring in the form of a citrus

acidic gasoline mixture.

With, ironically, anti-freeze.

I was unaware of my body tempurature, as my compact disks were out of wonder

and my purple shell was missing,

my shoes were too comfortable

and my ass was clearly much to sweaty,

but I shivered for the fact that I missed a hand greatly,

and I could really use some romantic caressing.

BUT

the ride was over after a druggish nap

and swigs of acid,

entering yet another theatre to see the beautiful people

sing songs I've heard before, but in previous lives.

I sit on a couch that probably shouldn't have been there

and watched the screen, wishing it would last for longer.

I ate nothing

and kissed your head once we got close enough for me

to start a jig in my mind, dancing dancing until my palms

were endlessly sweaty

and my lips would not stop smiling

for the life of them.

I missed you.

After one boob like th Titanic, and lyrics I barely knew,

it was over.

And I missed a bus on purpose.

We drank starbucks I didn't want or need,

and I kissed the air goodbye,

hopping on another polluter to mi casa.

And as I walk at last,

quitting the sitting game once and for all,

I became thoroughly convinced that

Spring begins on Woodland Avenue and Fairbault Street.

I saw the blood dripping down beneath my feet, after what I imagined to be

a bloody chainsaw massacre--

but no matter.

At last the bitch is sounds asleep

and my shell at home

and my feet almost there, I realize

no shell could contain

the words in my chest.