Broccoli and Canadian Mist at 30,000 minus 29,994 feet



Broccoli and Canadian Mist at 30,000 minus 29,994 feet


Time: 9 or 10 days ago (give or take a Halloween or two)

Place: Earth


This morning I woke up and immediately

rolled over on the couch and hit the refresh

button and found Shia LaBeouf still sitting there


in that movie theater trying to saddle through every one

of his own movies he was sleeping in that sort of way that tired

people sleep on airplanes or obligatorily long car rides—eyes open

and then not open, like stop motion blinking but even when

they’re open there’s really nothing/not much there

his body may be propped up in front of his own

movies but his mind is wandering through the days

that always evict us because that’s what days were born to do

they’re born to evict us so my body’s propped

here/now watching Shia LaBeouf watching his own movies but my thoughts


fuck, my thoughts are still sitting on the floor of a time machine

hovering next to that night I was sitting with her in the other room over there

attempting to fly helicopters and figure out life over broccoli


and Canadian Mist we’d placed the plate of broccoli

next to the landing pad of dead cigarette butts and as the chopper flew over

the wind from its blades dusted the cigarette ash over the broccoli like

soft pepper or hard pencil shavings or the pixilated tinsel strength

of a raincoat sized crush—there was ash hot tubbing it up with the vegetable dip


as her pumpkin trumped everything and my darkness flipped a switch

every time she laughed or her smile reentered the room

as the crimini mushrooms critiqued my helicopter remote control thumb work

unperturbed by my unsophisticated mispronouncing of their name

because they’re just mushrooms for cripe’s sake and being roomed mush

tend not get all worked up or offended all that easily about shit


so you know, you’ve gotta love them for that

and also for the fact that they’re delicious

or at least my memories insist they’re delicious


it’s been a long time now since I’ve had mushrooms

or a good night’s sleep or an actual orgasm with another human

particilatorily participating in the room because I’m legitimately messed up

and all these days go by now like they’ve invested everything they’ve got left in jetpacks

and in the mist/midst of all this jet-packing the days they evict us

at ridiculous speeds

but that doesn’t mean we give up

does it?


the days may be shitty landlords

but who needs landlords

when you’ve just had your heart stitched back together

with broccoli and gravity defying artifacts

and an unexpected tube of pumpkin shaped super glue


I’m a smiling sloppy helicopter pilot right now

giggling at a plate of uneatable broccoli 9 days ago

life past that? all these 9 to 10 days later


every second is a brand new soundtrack

and every soundtrack is at least 50% Matchbox Twenty

and there are music snobs out there that may mock that

but for me, Rob Thomas has always had my back/

so that’s a good thing, as


the past kicks off its straight jacket

and pretends to not comb its hair


I keep pace

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