The Orange Sun Rolls Around Connotation Land

I say this, but to you it means that or worse, nothing.

A tree obscures a power-line, fried potatoes tower
over trembling pieces of yellow corn. Tassels grab
clouds that rip. Contents pour, orange juice scum
lingers on the lips of a tall glass. Stringy pulp tastes
a bit like the dream I had after falling asleep to the radio:

A boy I adore lies beside me on a floral couch,
leaning in as his girlfriend watches television.
He tries to hold my hand where she can’t see
before we kiss I hear a buzz and am sucked into

another scene… I wander hallways wondering
where everyone went. I find them being served
hot meals behind open stall doors of a crumbling
elementary school bathroom: chewing in unison,
flushing between bites. It is only now that I realize
I have lost all ability to tell time. Stop. Before you fall

and break your concentration, straining for understanding,
teetering on a rickety step-stool somewhere near the Z’s…

I find myself reading this back wondering where it all went wrong…

I unholster my gun
to become my hero
and his hero
and his hero’s hero—

Pull the trigger
and write another fucking poem.


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