The best fright of our lives.

It's really as simple as just mesmerizing the key board. so when I type for the thirty-third time, you know I love you. and when dick comes searching for his thirty three grand, we'll know exactly which policeman put it into the evidence locker.

We both won a trip to Vegas. and I'm planning on marrying this boy.

You're the heart, the sunglass man. and you have yet to grow into those eyes. Everyone yearns to learn themselves. Everyone. We're not exclusionary, we're inclusionary. Whoa, BIG difference. We're motel muggers, tree huggers, and snotty little buggers. We're an alienation. But we have drinks and they're tasty. We slam. and when we do, they call the cops, and we jump out windows, over fences, or on trampolines. We're prepositionally adequate because we know where we are. but after a few, we forget exactly who, and it's a glitch we're getting fixed. We have nothing of pride, but pride, for pride, for the love of college park.

Or altamonte. We're in foreign waters and purple flashing submarines are anchoring our position. We're vividly on GPS scanners, searching for 7/11, twenty-four-seven. We are born lever-pullers with crooked teeth and empty wallets. People have dreams of us. of "we."

We are Florida stars, wayward teenage angst in velvet tuxedo pressure. We wear ourselves out with satire. We are the talk that mommies and daddies sit their children down for after watching a graphic lifetime movie. We're the General Surgeons warning on the side of cigarette packs, and the tape that holds crumby trailer parks together.

Without us... we're just eye. That's a horrid thought. If we're alone, we're prone to question and that's never a good idea. We're prom night. No, really, we're on the cover of every trucker magazine you ever saw in a rest station public stall. We're the writing on the wall. Or the ceiling, we're not picky, we're friends. We have names. And they're important, because that's what we call each other. We use mirrors like aluminum foil, wrap ourselves up and fold into together. We are on our way to the gether. We're wordplay and innuendo. We are just memory. And we have a habit of fading.

Perestroika.

What Joy remarked to the fairest: I can't lose you. Not like my keys, but in similar degrees. I need you. More than you need your boys. It gets stronger with every step down Edgewater Drive.

Where would we be without Kissimmee? You'd prove yourself in a cabaret, I'll the be the cash within your lingerie. If coffee's for closers, then openers are posers with blacklight smiles engraved on their face. You're the "A" in headache. You're like a wind-chime for the deaf, or the sunlight to the blind. You're everything but mine. And it's cruelly stabbing the throbbing burns from our front-porch-sagas. I don't think I'll believe you this time. Change has come. You're the assignment I continually forget to submit in english. You're the Gorbachev to my Glasnost; the fuse to a dynamite-lined mirror in my hallway containing the closet I pitched camp in.

I will not be the calendar this year.

A multimillionaire, of all forms, found a dancer to finance his love with. And I feel like her, clad in stud belts and headed for California mountains to start an industry in something still illegal. We'll call it "Summer," I suppose. The eleven train swings by. And I watch your video more than I go to class because I miss you, I love you, and all that cliche sob story.

Tell me where musicians fingers meet lavished prince's paupers; as unlikely as Draco and Ginny. It's oxymoronic, and that's sort of the point, isn't it? I have built things, I have composed word, and it's gorgeous. I constructed a desk, all on my own, and I wrote an extensive prologue, by myself. And everyone should be proud because it isn't school, but it's an application, nonetheless. and It's in April, which is surprising to me. These are wanton acts of teenagery.

This is where mighty meets the might-haves. Where sober college-bounders take fourteen hour naps. And where we all came from, before we spread around. There's fifty states in this tiny place, let's construct a plan to see each one, perhaps. This is our town?

This is our problem; we're stuck here. Wayward and wary and worried, uncanny, we're bored. There's more than Friday nights of coolers and ice. Though, I couldn't exactly explain right now.

And, hopelessly, with less than two months, I finally bought a table to hold what I'm capable of

radioimmunologically.

It's hard work playing the victim in April. Not when there's drizzle to wash your smiles, and puddles to soak your toes in. How could anyone ignore such a dazzling stratosphere once March has ended and April descended? There's twenty-nine days in this month. No, don't argue with me, it's true.

He's a boy of design. The rare man who finds daisies in Grant Park concrete. and when he plucks them, he unravels the entire world, string by string, tearing it apart and discovering every essence it ever had. He sees all of that before he rips the stem from the ground, but he does it anyway, because he enjoys watching it come apart. That's his gift; his deal. We all want to be designers. like Gage. We all want to have words that mean something, and stories that inspire, and talents that make skeptics eat their notepads.

I don't. I don't want to have to pick the daisy. I wonder if it's possible to see it all without having to destroy it. There's something in flight when you realize what could've been lost. As opposed to what you lost a year ago, more than a year, and how much of a difference it makes. How much of a difference she makes. She isn't a girl of design. I quite appreciate that.

An ode to Dani. I sure hope you're reading this...

So when the Cyrus siren sounds of CVS have got you down, and technological waves of strobe lighting paradise are eating at your brains, as the blue mountain dew is epically frustratingly sour as consumers consume your indifference, when the vanity of sanity has lost all it’s gleam, though this time it can seem that travesty is unavoidable, it’s controllable, I swear.

There, amidst some dark blue cotton, and vixen red lining true around your collar, buttons and sleeves, is where you can find me. Me, matching for eight hours, your attire, but lacking such flare or considerable stylistic appropriationalism. Me, trailing through an alcoholic’s intolerance for Bishop Moore kids, who does not what one should, but rather what one cant, is where a classic case of anti-emotional immune efficiency syndrome can.

And within these whitewashed fluorescent ceilings and master masters of sales or receipts, is where two unheard-of forces meet. That’s you and me. In CVS for eternity.

To Be Continued...