Want to pass out
in that way
that only comes artificially,
chemical sweet,
like a crow beakful of
Jolly Ranchers—
cherry, not watermelon,
the second-best flavor.
After my head hits
a pillow soft as the cotton
under the pill cap,
twisted open
before we’ve
even left the store.
Then I’ll consolidate my love
into one true way—the way
Dorothy took
the yellow brick road
as if the whole land of Oz
had no back roads,
no cut-throughs—
all them people,
Munchkins and witches,
Tin Men and Scarecrows,
a fucking lion,
a whole kingdom,
only paid for the one road,
bright as hard candy.
No comments:
Post a Comment