Broccoli and Canadian Mist at 30,000 minus 29,994 feet
Time: 9 or 10 days ago (give or take a Halloween or two)
Place: Earth
This morning I woke up and immediately
rolled over on the couch and hit the refresh
button and found Shia LaBeouf still sitting there
in that movie theater trying to saddle through every one
of his own movies he was sleeping in that sort of way that tired
people sleep on airplanes or obligatorily long car rides—eyes open
and then not open, like stop motion blinking but even when
they’re open there’s really nothing/not much there
his body may be propped up in front of his own
movies but his mind is wandering through the days
that always evict us because that’s what days were born to do
they’re born to evict us so my body’s propped
here/now watching Shia LaBeouf watching his own movies but my thoughts
fuck, my thoughts are still sitting on the floor of a time machine
hovering next to that night I was sitting with her in the other room over there
attempting to fly helicopters and figure out life over broccoli
and Canadian Mist we’d placed the plate of broccoli
next to the landing pad of dead cigarette butts and as the chopper flew over
the wind from its blades dusted the cigarette ash over the broccoli like
soft pepper or hard pencil shavings or the pixilated tinsel strength
of a raincoat sized crush—there was ash hot tubbing it up with the vegetable dip
as her pumpkin trumped everything and my darkness flipped a switch
every time she laughed or her smile reentered the room
as the crimini mushrooms critiqued my helicopter remote control thumb work
unperturbed by my unsophisticated mispronouncing of their name
because they’re just mushrooms for cripe’s sake and being roomed mush
tend not get all worked up or offended all that easily about shit
so you know, you’ve gotta love them for that
and also for the fact that they’re delicious
or at least my memories insist they’re delicious
it’s been a long time now since I’ve had mushrooms
or a good night’s sleep or an actual orgasm with another human
particilatorily participating in the room because I’m legitimately messed up
and all these days go by now like they’ve invested everything they’ve got left in jetpacks
and in the mist/midst of all this jet-packing the days they evict us
at ridiculous speeds
but that doesn’t mean we give up
does it?
the days may be shitty landlords
but who needs landlords
when you’ve just had your heart stitched back together
with broccoli and gravity defying artifacts
and an unexpected tube of pumpkin shaped super glue
I’m a smiling sloppy helicopter pilot right now
giggling at a plate of uneatable broccoli 9 days ago
life past that? all these 9 to 10 days later
every second is a brand new soundtrack
and every soundtrack is at least 50% Matchbox Twenty
and there are music snobs out there that may mock that
but for me, Rob Thomas has always had my back/
so that’s a good thing, as
the past kicks off its straight jacket
and pretends to not comb its hair
I keep pace
