The hand twitches like a dying bug.
It's my hand, squeezing the life out of that creepy-crawly.
Guts and juices trickle down my lines.
Families scream a buzzing sound.
Cool night plays hopscotch on my taste buds.
Pungent aroma of graceful flowers and stinking dog crap wafts around me.
And the little bug's eyes give me one last pleading look as the light fades from them.
Greedily my hands soak up the blood.
It tasting sweet in my mouth like blood made by Lizzy Borden in the white pages of a book.
But yet the pages were stained blue.

Weird people walk beating down the street.
Bouncing to the music of the Plains, Trains, and Automobiles (with maybe a hint of yelling from, our neighbor, the Pig Lady).
Her son yells back, 'Shut the wazooy up.'
Because he never made it through elementary school and wrote his own dictionary.
'That's the way the cookie crumbles.' My mom adds.
The obscene light bulb of thought goes off, connecting the wirers.
I see why my mother hates the Pig Lady so.

I'm about as wicked as a white cat.
My body elevates and I'm able to eat a dirty cloud.
I take one of the whiter ones and form yet another book with no words.
So that thoughts cannot fill pages, but fill sky. So people who can't read can breathe them in.
Yet get high on my lies.
I'll just have to read between the lines to know what's on the surface.
'Mein Vater, mein Vater. Die Idee ist nicht tot.'*
That's what the clouds whisper.
Though I would not listen to a cloud.
They get high on all that carbon dioxide.
And they make stupid shapes that look different to everyone.

Leaves cascade down in a river.
To cover up the black bugs blue blood.



*My father, my father. The idea is not dead.