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perhaps if i am dressed in my yellow tuxedo, i will ride my bicycle around the contours of velvet brown/green quilted suburbia. the shoelaces on my brown-rubber-soled shoes will become caught in the spokes and pull me violently into a ditch by the side of the road where the shed needles of cactus shrubs will sink into my skin in a sticky rotting brown honey way. there i will lie feeling lethal, as all porcupines and pine-forests must, listening to the wheels on my broken machine spin slowly to a halt. deciduous forests in matted thoughts of stems and chlorophyll will fall from the cavey smell of my skull then; that little girls are ephemeral insects, are all made as ornamental frippery for the hearts of kingly men; that the act of running in circles has changed and the shapes are not circles but great drooping hearts. i will RISE then from my cactus-y grave, thoughtless with the great innocent strength of A BRONTOSAURAS drawn on manila paper by youthful sugar-stickied fingers; will walk about giving out FREE HUGS that will murder everyone with pointed vegetation javelins; will not be sorry to see them go and will watch them drop from me stiff, just as if i am a grey office cubicle; will prop them next to the water-cooler with cactus needles poking from their hearts while the shiny coffee stains on their teeth become precious instead of flawed to their wives and daughters and they are just flesh and bones. will walk home wiping my nose on my tuxedo sleeve while the sole of my right shoe squeaks. will declare to them with a tired voice: am a broken machine, i am a broken machine spinning slower and slower.
by The JavaScript Source
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