Can’t help but think of Lorde and baseball. Wooden bat knocked the ball out of the park. They all look like Mr. Met with blue and orange. Kettle bell jumps and launches rockets up and above Miami. Networked clubs all over the United States. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown”. Bejeweled and decorated. The shine attempts to erase the blood spilt for the Empire, whether Star Wars, or British, or otherwise. Stations across America know the urge and swell of emergency. Dancing heads of guillotine summers. Where it seems aloof to pretend not to know. Grateful salad wedges simply sinful mischief peering into kitchen cabinets knowing not where they stand or where they lead. Where Did Our Love Go? Diana Ross will live forever. I have the records to prove it. Filed away in my memory banks are regal associations. What about the Borg Queen? What about bees? What about our planet is dying, no? Scrape on me, getting by and loving the thrill of the chase and the danger of dying. The possibility that we’ve slipped into slipstream drive are piling up like cars on a freeway headed west. Samples of snapshots. Little polaroid pictures of our lives and I’m scared now. No one walks the tightrope in one fell swoop. You’re gonna fall. It’s gonna hurt. I want to rule my own soul. The mind’s turned off now.