Tractor hum sounds like honey

And I’d mow lawns for minimum wage to pay for visits to Dimebox, our movies unfolding poetically, where rooms are no more but glossy centerfolds, where your mother is correct, where snow is a bodily fluid and a petticoat…is a satisfied lap.

I could ease on four-color switches. Or amp up the purple florescence, the radiation flashing red among other letters. The light has fixated on a poor babe’s visage, whose clear eyes are spinning unreal images in ceiling strips of a buffalo herd, coruscating aqua, dancing spider trees and kitchen-utensils amidst a mossy, dented baseball fence. This all dwindles before a curtsey. I spin my hips in a polka-dotted skirt, so soft against a thigh, I am laying under the power line machinery; your hand is softer and softer than the grass while the sky turns up more and more, as the moon settles in for dinner with a tree for a fork. A pink comforter embraces all these colors and beings. Yet we find refuge in the ant hills. Yet you need a sharp pen to carve Elle a chaud le cul, or something fancy-French that means She’s hot in the pants. Can you play Bright Eyes? I learned the 14, 12, and 13, up and slide, sidelines wash with sensitive fingertips.

My mouth is dry; I have no words.
I am nothing but a swindled maiden with no bunk or drink. I am wandering and useless.
And if I am a stolen bundle of goods, should I not have purpose?
Should the supply of your diet soda diminish?
My dream isn’t full yet. My rain hasn’t soiled our whites.
I’ve got my foot caught under yellow cord, babe. I can’t pursue this sweet lemonade trampoline-game, though I would like to win and drench sugar allover the porcelain bottom of my cup. I deserve to sip on something less acrid. Yet the reality is, I chose the luxury of hard liquor, I needed to pat some on the cheeks and feel the desolation burning in throat and cerebrum. At times it rocked the world to sleep. And occasionally I slept with the world; the drink tucked me in, pulled covers on my pathetic body, leaving all the appropriate wrinkles and crevices – the kind you liked to tug straight.
As I trample checkered linoleum in my rain boots, waiting for it, waiting for the weather to favor me and we, I put on a khaki pretty-coat, whence I attempt hell. As I walk I cut out dollies in special embroidered paper. I set them in vases; nice simple ones. We notice over the years how dense the collection has grown.
The bottle I keep in my pocket says faintly in print: “No refill.” And who likes to be limited?
It’s right there for me to grab. I can almost taste it, because I can easily screw off the cap and indulge myself.
I could ride off to Rio or Ibiza or Guam, or Morocco, or a lengthy-named city in India. I could pack my big heavy bags and saddle up, pilgrim, with my hot pink $3.40 flip-flops, my cardigan sweater, my vinyl cherry red paint box, my boxes of words, my travel candles and Proactiv and teen spirit and Truck jeans and the special hoodie you gave me and all the supply of pink napkins one would ever need. I could.
And we could shred up coated bills of reform. We could not conform.

We could dance like the light of sequins upon mirrors.