Talk yourself to sleep.
Count out, on fingers and toes
how many gold stars you keep on your ceiling
and how they sparkle off gleaming kitchen appliances.
We all nod our general heads
pretending to listen.
Pulling your hair back, out of you’re warbling mouth.
Insisting the importance of the galaxy
is pouring from you’re teeth.
All the things you heard in the 60s are irrelevant.
We are intuitive beyond knowing.
When we chatter we are solitary,
heated heavy heads with eyes on fire,
skipping lunch to reveal rebel missions.
Surpassing the mundane.
Expanding the uncertain realms,
calling on cherry bombing, skate boarders
to find holes into China
and sew us back together with common thread.
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