Giving the Earth a Bellyache

my thoughts

An ice cube can never live the life of a cactus, nor can it speak French. But why must a principle as nostalgically concocted be so yogurt-like. If we never had met I wouldn’t know how to pet my grass. I massage the crevices of a fish’s thesaurus and ignite the matches of all the birthday cakes in Cleveland. When shall we stop experimenting with air on denim-blue celebrations of life?

Some perplexing kid is playing Russian roulette with an ant farm he stole from his school’s library. With soft knees I dissect an enigmatic snow man and detain him for some questioning. I listen to the sound of legitimate canoes fencing with an alligator’s paycheck. Hills and hens merge at the table to glue sleeping bags and blisters together and cough up blades of my now petted grass. I can explain my flick of the toe mood with a swish of a trolley car and an apple in one hand.

I open a shell of a worm and command it to move. A password to a tree house was just written to paper. A batch of ginger bread men are hatching up a plan to revolt; the oven cannot oppress us no more! As lethargic as it may sound, a camel’s lunchbox is its humps. The glowing of a bench on a winter’s day, and its poignant film of doves, can tumble even the most strongest of turnips. Cashing out is a memory for the few but high-fiving is global.

I persuade my legs to advance the plot and interact with a member of my species. Greetings and jaunting grins are exchanged and we proceed to fish for thoughts. A titanic crate of emotions envelope me and I’m grasping for a tangible object to stand on. Hands converge like magnets and a twister of fondness connects with a scrawny hand of joy. Meals are granted permission to enter our bodies and the blood of my brain takes a limousine to my stomach. My rationality and knowledge of the Industrial Revolution tag along. My brain stores my new folders of information in its closet and I keep the receipt. I peer at the thought-provoking human and associate her aesthetics with things of beauty. Time smirks as we empty our pockets to keep ourselves in close proximity and a humid laugh releases itself from my mouth. What a charismatic cellular unit I have in front of me and it knows my language.

Peas in a mitten’s band flute revive a spoon in unison. I unstrap my stilts and guide a waltzing couple to the exit of a Mayan pyramid. I hinder the completion of a puddle and beat a lawyer’s dog at Connect Four. Criss-crossed bag pipe players join their phones to the wifi. I map out my plan of attack but the wind thinks it’s better if he holds on to it. A pacifistic corn dog sleeps on the ground floor of a steel factory. Robotic sounds evaporate from my mind and I plead the fifth.