You can fly your kite in the grape jelly wind. You
can wash your hands in the chocolate fountain and wipe
them wherever you’d like–your mouth, a vanilla wafer,
Mav’s breath like a dragon in the morning. You
can cut the paper baby into many pieces, many Reese’s Pieces,
many slices of cantaloupe, many splices of life. Justin Bieber
as everyone’s boyfriend and a bald eagle as the thing
to yearn to be more like. You
can agree to disable our missteps before they even happen. You
can woodcut your brother over and over so you’re triplets
then quadruplets then quintuplets then there’s an entire wrestling
squad prepared to grapple for you. You
can be too chubby or you
can batter the others in the hall with your backpack or you
can be too loud. You
can make meaning with either end of a barrel. You
can make meaning with a number two pencil then watch it
turn to rubber. You
can make meaning in the May flood. You
can grasp at bumblebee-shaped hummingbirds.
Once there were mountains here and the hummingbirds
exploded them. You
can remountain this place. You
can replace nouns with verbs. “The tumble ate my homework.”
“Hugged left me alone without supper.” You
can replace verbs with an entire rocket ship of clowns.
“Spinach can an entire rocket ship of clowns to the moon
for all I care.” “I an entire rocket ship of clowns the difference
between reality and fantasy, although I’m trying.” You
can protect this earth with your purple headband. You
can protect your family with just a new megaphone.
“We have your head surrounded with infinite-simal avalanches
of reason.” “Come out with your hands up your nose.” You
can bend rules of etiquette depending on your style of shirt—checked
or striped or a tank top in the winter. You
can wear a tank top in the winter. You
can exchange certain types of top-wear for currency currently.
Though I’d advise you to first explore a few other options,
like wakeboarding in a Gatorade commercial. You
can ride your bicycle into the wind for money. You
can ride your bicycle into a lake for money. You
can bottle the lake but that’ll only get you pennies. You
can remember pennies. You
can penny up on any pony you’d like and jump
the rusty barrel. The critics will call you majestic in your sequins. You
can exchange your sequins for a cup of tea. For years you’ll overpay
and then closing the window as the neighbor mows in the downpour you
realize you
can make everything at home—tea and biscuits, ponies and peonies
to leave on a doorstep. You
can leave a baby on the doorstep of god, but be prepared
when they throw it out. You
can remind us why we’re so dumb. With your painted lions
and your free throws over the apocalypse and your new way to guzzle
water and your honey-roasted corndogs and your way of dotting
your ‘i’ with a tiny o. You
can watercolor the sunset when it forgets to rise. You
can march your trumpet around town, blow it at the mayor, blow it
at my neighbor Fred, blow it at the kiddos
who have replaced you, slipping and crying around the town’s big fountain,
blow it until your eyes are plums. You
can bury your hatchet into the fresh fruit
but I’d suggest a knife. You
can scribble words on a napkin and then wipe up the ketchup. You
can scribble ketchup on a napkin and then wipe up the words. You
can take a match or maybe a torch to a group of words you
encounter as you
age here and toss it at the stars when you
are baffled. A safe place to ride an elephant.
An open casket wedding. Entire rows of teeth falling out
a second time. A firefly stuck to your sunglasses
or a plane coming back too soon or your father’s hair
covered in grease and ignited. You
can drink your moderated soda and walk Main
Street and feel safe. You
can know there once was a void and now there’s a mural
of chimps riding motorcycles and the largest congregation of butterflies
and the history books being edited. An entire town built atop a tomato. You
can eat an entire bushel of bananas.

Click to play: