i hope these words tug at your wrists
with a puzzled smile, and a face painted
like psychedelia in summertime.
to pull you down a rabbit hole, with shotgun in hand, saying
stories are nice, but supper is something more concrete.
and you'll sputter out every excuse for escape,
make lists of dates to which you're late,
but following these words all the while.
i remember that denim june night
when we found aliens off of route 54.
they touched our fingertips like they'd seen in movies
and treated us to mouthfuls of god,
with their flippers and their gills and their stars and their love.
but you swatted a fly and they left us
in the graces of summer's heat and that noiseless highway,
to consider the consequences of an insect's death.
you laughed and tugged at my wrist, and tasted my lips
like you'd seen in movies.
Created: Jul 23, 2010Document Media