I break down into a heartbeat
through a whipped cream canister;
God’s feet whomp at the Pearly Gates.

Incapable of sin, I’m unable to think.
Love jitters through every pore
of my skin & laughter drools

out. In an out-of-body only
Malcolm In The Middle exists
when Dewey asks, “is your
brain big enough to get

your feelings hurt? Me
neither”. My life replicates
art, choking out brain cells,

and I no longer have to know
what my heart feels. My brain
is too small for that.