Every second is a bomb for the ice cream man to produce.
Inconsistent shaking? Have some neon.
Make the creamsicle's go to waste.

You park beside the morgue and hum in F minor,
Melting coins into syrup for the children who never drank alcohol.
A girl trades her elbow for one pistachio and a half.
A boy eats time by the hour (soft-serve style).

The sun peels back its citrus skin in ****** motion.
Flies memorize everything. Everything.
The truck grows legs and no one ever asks for change.

I opened a letter addressed to no one
And found a wet map of my own grin.
The postmark said “Somewhere Between”
And the ink ran like a guilty priest.

The ceiling hummed its usual sermon:
  “You are a question your mirror asks gently.”
I nodded, chewing on glass-handled scissors,
Waiting for the floor to finish deciding its shape.

A horse walked in, dressed as my therapist.
She whined,
  “Your trauma wears a wedding dress.”
I asked for a refund
  And received a gun filled with sleep.

Behind the curtain:
  Someone’s mother melting into a fax machine,
  My ex spelling “forgiveness” with her teeth,
  A child screaming “I’m your future, father!”
  While drawing on a body bag.

I stood there,
  Drenched in six contradictory versions of myself,
Clutching a plunger and a birth certificate.

Someone whispered,
  “Your voice is a privilege.”

And all my response to that was:
  “Shut up louder.”

Why is it all just a storm?

A crisis?
    More than a crisis
A jester?
    More than a jester
A king?
    More than a king

I’ll end thee, brutal vulgarity
Your arms folder in envelopes
  And the laggard you call a brother
  Can’t sign his own name

But I remember one thing I was told
“Rotten eggs always taste fresher
  Because they remind you of hunger
  And hunger reminds you you’re real”

So I bit down on the yolk of it all
  And laughed like a man being hanged
Because the wind never stops —
  It just changes itself.

The bread, eaten by men with tired jaws, their spirits dull in their cloistered mouths. People chew without flavor, without desire, without butter, without anything; these individuals prefer cake.

“But really, this can’t be right, tell me!”
Like mold, everything withers around you!
“Why do dreams fade away at the break of dawn?!”
Even the pale sun no longer awakens their hunger.

Alas, a man is found, dead! A pale face, his head covered in blood, what a vie en roses! The bread, never touched, was not far from the body.

“Oh, how ugly this man is!”

After a few moments, the crowd understands one thing: before his death, he was eating cake.