it was a swamp's dream
to be a snowball,
to be a snowball,
just as it was a day's desire
to be dead.
to be dead.
Oh baby, please give me
your fingerprints,
because the piano
in dancehall heart
is itching to be kicked
like a typerwriter in love
with a crowbar,
but both of them are falling
off a building.
Ouch, my window weeps
for you to climb through,
because I'd rather you be with me
than an internet rainbow
while the choices just pile up
giving excuse to leave.
On my way,
a woman told me an archetypical tale,
about how the mythical coyote stole fire
from some unnamed village,
and she said that was me,
dancing with love in my jaws.
Only two ways
to tell time,
neither belongs in a microwave,
where tin foil hats
turn into sparks from across the hall,
by accident.
and plastic melts.