"Five thousand Michael Jordans are slam-dunking the singularity at the last second of
Pablo Neruda's atoms have decided to have a reunion at the edge of a flaming trumpet.
The peacock recalls the last daydream of the dinosaur,
shakes the rainbow from off its back,
takes to the sky and sings a song so lovely that the moon whispers,
"maybe I should sit this one out, guys".
And it does.
The world is silent. The doorbell rings.
The mailman is at the front,
he's carrying every love letter that every stranger has ever written for you.
Oh, dear you,
I want to slow dance on the moon with you to the shaking notes of a young Frank Sinatra
with a Martian Daisy between my lips.
we will unclench the neon fist of morning
into the nervous palms of dawn
and break every tooth in the golden mouth of honey
from a sweetness we have just invented.
you are made from the things that can not be named:
the lemon seeds intention,
a love stain in the back of a 1950's Camaro filled with rocket fuel
and the exhale that came after Rome’s last disco.
you are the lot-lizards tail regrown: the only miracle in a 4am truck stop.
You are Mrs. Armstrong's shaking legs the first night Neal came back home;
You are a candelabra with a fuck-poem burning on every fucking corner
like a disassembled star born from the kiss of Tennessee fireworks.
Dear you, you are precious.
Like a Trojan horse made from 99 cello's playing happy birthday to the 600th year of your inner-child,
dear you, you are precious.
Let this letter inside your gates,
let all the syllabled soldiers march out like Mexican candy from a wooden piñata,
and sack the city of your doubt."