I ride around on top of the revolution, slinging mud at
all of the fake nounbots that slam their horns into my
nog like dim take-out. I told you I never knew how to
snuggle all of this, and I beg of you, how do we grow
so far apart? Put simply, the blue elephants, like life it
self, a rainy ultimacy which can only be fun if you
say “look, this’ll be fun if I can just be fun?” I’m at
a loss over what to interject here—the broken roses
or the burnt bananas; they aren’t so bruised and
broken as we pretend them to be, holding our hands,
oiling our verbs. Nor are these red pills quite so import
ant as [important person’s] red pills. Insert Code Zero,
he broke something else when I rode him. The lint in the
fan that doesn’t work; mm, the light in the bulb that is burnt?
