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An Electric Cliche

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The wind blows,
the sky falls,
the pigs fly,
and hell has frozen over
to make way for the new world
of Dr. Seuss trees,
pink elephants,
and candyland fantasies,
swirling around like a lit up barbershop pole
illuminating discarded pennies on a dark,
empty,
sidewalk.
Heffalumps and Woozels
become the constant companions of my optic nerve,
while red wine,
fluid pigment
joins my aortic valves,
pumping through
giving life, and breath and hope
all in one rush,
from my fingers,
to my elbows,
to my hips,
all the way down to my tiny, stunted toes
and back up again,
creating a soft, soothing rhythm
that is the beginning of life
and the background music of our souls.
The candyland game dances before my eyes,
and here i am,
a princess,
with a crown of spun sugar and
a bubblegum dress,
a lollypop scepter in my hand,
on the arm of my candy cane prince,
whisking me away
among the sugarplums and gumdrops,
to tell me how sweet i am,
pun intended.
But then i look into the blue beyond blue
of his irises and it all falls away,
pieces scattering every which way,
and somehow i remember
that i am no more the lollypop princess
than he is my candy cane man
and the blue of his eyes and the sky
come falling on my head,
a cool water wake up call,
a crash landing that knows:
i have to walk away from that forget-me-not color
giving nothing more than a glance
and the ghost of a smile
to tell the story
of my candlyland fantasy.





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