Fried Pickle Lemonade

I’m lost so I burn down the barn. I’m hungry so I find an apocalypse.
I can’t sleep so I write poetry. I’m tired so I plant 13 roses.
I stumble on my words so I hide them in a bottom drawer.
I’m nostalgic for wayward days so I put this message in a bottle.
I’m bored so I get a new tattoo. I’m lonely so I get a new lover.
I fumble my clumsy heart so I cover it up in bubble wrap.
I can’t sing so I rap. I can’t dance so I dress well.
I lasso the moon only to find the cheese rotten.
I’m starstruck by meandering Mercury.
I’m a mouse with a bad tooth.

If you walked into my world with a bottle of wine, I’d pull a glass out of the cupboard and we’d sit in the living room and talk about how the world is made of lace and finer things, and when all the wine was drunk I’d head to the kitchen for another bottle and then we’d adjourn outside when it was cooler and light a bonfire so the stars had company and continue to talk and laugh too loudly till  the neighbors peer over the wall and ask us to call it a night; then we’d return inside and play the record player softly as we drink the third bottle and talk about how when we were young we’d make mix tapes using double cassette boom boxes, developing the timing to press Record and Play simultaneously, and then with sandalwood candles burning on the mantle we’d  stare into each other eyes, trying to get that symmetry back.

The moon sets behind a hollow mountain. There are cacti reaching for the celestial unknown. I’m over here in my boxers, drinking fried pickle lemonade.

I’m a lost letter in the wrong mailbox.

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