bulb

Bulbasaurus, Pokemon. Being a kid. Game Boy Color, Trading Cards, pop culture arguments, attempts to establish dominance over anything, but couldn’t have known less about. I remember being a kid and going with my Mom or Dad to a garden store – maybe Ploch’s – And we bought these big bulbs to plant. I want to say they were for tulips, but they could have been crocuses. We must’ve planted them once we got home, in the soft, moist dirt. I remember being extremely interested in their shape. I had never seen anything like that before to be planted. I’m assuming we planted them in the front yard, because I think we have some tulips there now. I’ve never really prioritized plants, have never really been into gardening, but as I get older I become increasingly fond of the idea.

Light bulb idea over my forehead. Buzzing electricity wired through my mouth. It tastes like blood and metal. I smell the singe of skin as I think so hard; Smoking coming out of my ears. Dancing tapdance poetic. The bulb gets hot when I touch it. The ghost of Thomas Edison trying to prevent me from doing so. Blinding light I have to shield myself. To gaze into the orb of this networked power would be sure blindness. Definitely. Close your eyes and you can hear it hum from the ceiling. Interrogation room, smoking cigarette, skin goosebump’d. Feel like you’re in a glass chiller, a meat freezer. Cold meat, cold metal handcuff attached to cold metal desk. Ralphie would not do well in here. 2-way mirror. Lie, facade, crime show gibberish. Blood stain under the toe of the boot. Would they know could they see it? Was it trailed in? Circle. Singular buzzing, a bitch. A pitch lower is the cooling system. Wanting a cup of soup and a warm blanket. Scratchpad. Taking notes. Investigation. Electricians warning. Rubber soles. Rubber souls. Siamese twins in a lost dynasty. Light bulbs. Intelligence. IQ. Perseverance. Motivational poster. Counting down to espionage. Ready engines. Marksman on the horizon, shooting foul with a foul mouth that no wonder no one hears but the wind. Crying out now. In the reeds and tall grasses.

Author: Roe

29. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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