a little less road kill

a little more cough syrup

the curve of space replaced

by macaroni noodles

and hot glue

there is a way that everything fits together

I swear

your sticky hands will find it

In the filthy afternoon mask

of another day not spent at home

I know

most 6 year olds still believe in parachutes and lifeboats

this time next month call me riptide

and I will call you banana peel

we will nickname each other

in a way our mothers would disapprove

It is not an accident to hunt pink cotton or green army men

It is joypopping mindbeams

so feast your fingers harmoniously

it is not your fault

we are all stumbling, futureless guzzling inner riots

you grin at your terminus

and divinity grins back

in the folk rock of everything all the time

in the avocado pit tea

in the drag of the carcinogens you don’t take anymore

there are far easier ways to say something else is killing you

than not checking for your parachute