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Happiness floods my nervous system and I recognize it as false. Chim Chim Cheree
Letting its dry waters turn like a stupid homeowner leaving the hose running, I move through the town and the day, shaking hands smiling like I was 2/7ths of Snow White's dwarves, a poor man's post-ghost Scrooge.
The keymaker sets me in a coffin of wax for a duplicate that moves through the town boiling.
I am a can of Cain and Abel cabling: "Please don't hurt and God's hell for sin." Modern translations of traditional fables lightened for children, which in the originals end with brutal beatings by iron bars.
Commercials for fruit juice.
The horoscope said stay inside today but Dick Van Dyke's doing jumping jacks on the street with five accordion-playing bears and the all-elation orchestra of Kids for Christ.
Emotion is clay, three lopsided balls that I'll juggle.
The tune I'll toot with this flute made from a blowgun will be the anthem of some graveyard or garden.
The hose will snake dance into the air and I'll hug it like a desperate phallus, for I am Joy Incarnate.
