splat

There have been periods of apologies
-now is not one of those times-
where so wistfully I wander and
excuse myself before Rainbow Brite and
all her absentee fathers.
I walked at night, fed upon whiskey-soaked raisins,
picked flowers while trampling still others.
No more. This is not that.
My tickets continue to be valid.
Even if they are not,
despite this falling rain and how it smudges my ink-
I entered the park when I was born.
So naturally I beg to differ
when it comes to you coming at me
with that friendly holiday blade.
I'm no turkey.
I'm no stocking-stuffed surprise for your vacant hands-

Listen here listen to me listen to what I'm not saying,
the spaces between your words: listen:
There's a message in there somewhere
like "Tickle Me Dracula" howling under siesta suns
as the smoke rises into the costly blue nest of the willowy sky,
forming the nonchalant animal traffic of our babyhoods-
It says "love before you leave" because purple is the color of God and anthropomorphized school buses dissolve into elephants and chairs and then cotton. Let your heart swell beyond convention.
Let the singing begin.
It may take some time, but you will see
that even badly painted garage doors
become majestic in the horizon of an insect's dreams.