Slatternly clouds disrobe the blue sky, peeling away for storms in another dimension of cool correlations. My causation is staring at me, unblinking. The sky is exactly what I mean when I say I was blue, flying my kite down Main Street and making promises to tree tops. I hear a wind summoning me to the brink of winter, the culmination of the cold leaking in the edges of unsealed autumn.

Sour glowing integers run away from me like sunlight. Sophisticated testimony of a holographic truth echoes through the passages of Culture, who is wearing cheap leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. The math here is simple. Take a woman and divide her by herself and watch angst spill out as the remainder.

Crisp bubbles crinkle as they pop open on my sharp personality. I have a sticker collection bigger than you. The rowboat that seemed so superfluous is becoming essential as the river rises from my eyes. I need to row to a land of roses and pinwheels, where the refining fire of delirious faith is as sweet as honey from charitable bees. The fine print in life’s lease is that you are responsible for maintenance of the machine.

Unrelenting, unrepenting dismay trickles through culture like tree sugar through a fungal network. My ego glows in the dark. Under the blacklight, sin splattered everywhere. I used to dance when I had feet. Now I float with the other ghosts of dances past, my spirit sagging whenever the music stops. In the trees, revolution. From the women’s arms tangling children like branches, the infestation of revolutionary thought. The dayglo atrocities of banal government are a sign pointing to the cemetery. Here, the piñatas are people. Bust open a politician and watch the graft pour out, sugary and deadly. Democracy tends her Fire by the river and knows her true daughters by name.

Tidal dreams of octopi slip-slurping over slippery stones in pools of liquid crystal flood my mind. Love is prehistoric and present. In the dead of night, my lover will come to be on a magic carpet remnant from Floors R’ Us. In the honesty of daylight, something with seven more brains than I have listens to me spin my yellow yarns, wondering why my stories are so simplistic.

Crusty Tuesdays stick flyers about a month for sale in my old, chipped mailbox. I need a deal. Math has been chomping in my periphery. I threaten him with my angry blood. Rage washes over the periwinkle, petrified plane. Take my hands. Sew them to the monster you keep chained in your office behind the ad soaked computer monitor that logs your wasted time. I feel I am not real, which makes me true and evanescent. I’d like to buy a month. September, perhaps, savory and amber. Or July, polished until it gleams. But my funds cannot be found. Money hears my name and prances off to another pretend person.