Driving on this electric highway,
it shoots to be the
monkey on the back.
White, green, in a bottle or a machine.
Foul breath screams out
words that I hold dear.

Holding up a candle
by its burning wick,
while a sea breeze
slaps me with a salty sting.

Fumbling through an atmosphere
joined tongue and groove,
from the first breath to the last
the artichoke heart pumps out the beat.

One foot in front of the other,
another swing and the pinata breaks,
raining down lies to be gathered up
and taken home
to be stretched out and hung
alongside the truths.