We wrapped him in a black gift paper
I went through a time portal
To a childhood incarcerated
I drove by the cradle of my identity
I drove by a thousand mirrors in the rain
I drove by Las Vegas lights and God’s grace
An intellectual policeman
Was the first person we made love to there
We talked about pyramids and thermodynamics
The fruit withered on the vine
An eternity was spent living inside of that box
Seething personality, we made love
Laughed at the dirt, we made love
Wearing a cereal box, we made love
Same old, Same old, we made love
With music, we made love

A fog is now the brain, it is no longer powerful
Electric spasms in the neck are now in control
We are functioning properly
Our words match the rhythm and time
Suits walk around us
The original man had to become an artist
A true artist bringing forth food from the earth and bliss
Just bliss, blissful mediocrity
Laugh around it folks, it’s OK, follow suit in this tale
Fear is taking over what’s left of a man, dust
Only this loving hand can lead you to death’s door, hug you, and say good-bye
Stillborn memories trigger these thoughts
We were architects joyous
Nationalist of our own imaginary nation, but not xenophobic
The arch looks nice, you’re high on nostalgia, but regretfully ash
We colored the old hair on his head with a sharpie
We melt into that memory
We Blaspheme
We congratulate each other on telling the truth
The music ends, because there’s been an amputation
The trumpeter axed off the conductor’s hand with a cleaver

See what you forgot?
Everyone’s in their underwear
Atomic super families are in their underwear
Flashback to your first words, you were in your underwear
Death
Stop saying his name or else the world will become nothing but bright colors
We don’t talk about it
At least not truthfully
The things you dislike
We lie
Or tell half the truth
The cold world could crush you into a oneness
Into a singularity because the sun is just a black hole waiting to happen
It schemes to condense all atoms to be one
There is no me anymore, nevermore
That’s what you fear the most, even though you know it will be a relief
The number you identify yourself by, 1
Make up an excuse quick and leave, anything will do, say
“Some people are very kind”
“Sacred union always happens when the rain falls on the first blooming flowers”
“Soldier’s blood makes good fertilizer”
“Read Matthew 1 and give a proper name to your child”
“You are just another watermelon seed that won’t be planted”
Eventually, they will shake snow on you, you’ll feel it and look it
Stretch out your arms like a teenager one last time
You’re only 35
A twin to your past in every way
But Cain, how is your brother?
How should I know?
The earth is crying out great electricity, but I guess that happens
These are your memories
Can I have them?
Quick make up an excuse to leave before they laugh
Ha-ha ha-ha

Do you want this?
Yes
Too bad
Do you recognize me?
Shrug your shoulders
I’m not good at math
Is this a vacation?
I’m all animal grunts walking morbidly down the sidewalk with remorse
You were the architect and the arch
Your childhood was created from a dataset in your brain
It only exists if you access it
There was no time for the traditional institutions
We needed tapestries for the walls immediately
Where are you?
Are you really there?
We decided to keep creation last night
We put all the leftovers in the pot
It was cold outside, so we made hot soup
We could keep going on and on, we said yes, but we meant no
We traveled a New Hampshire mile alone
Alone, I can lose myself

 

Andrew Borne is 2 Cups Poet 1 teaspoon Musician 1/4 teaspoon Salt 1/2 cup Absurdity 3/4 cup Chef 1 egg, beaten 2 1/3 cups Family Man. Mixed together and served raw. His column 7x appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.