Dual or triple pronged electrical surge. Two Ben Franklin lightning bolts come flashing down from the sky cracking and crackling with Zeus-like determination and vengeance. It is an outlet for this metaphysical energy. Slapstick comedy routine, but Nature as its star. It is very avant-garde and abstract and I don’t expect you to understand it unless if you’ve read a little Schopenhauer or Nietzsche. Obsessed with the spelling. Obsessed with the corrections. Little things I cannot let go, though I know I’m supposed to. Categorical horrific melody in the Barrow bathroom. Like like carnival music to get murdered by in some cutting room floor Goosebumps novel that didn’t quite make the cut. Is R.L. Stine alive today? I recall childhood when Goosebumps, Nancy Drew, and the Boxcar Children were the taste of the day. It was like those books mattered and nothing else. This was pre-Harry Potter for sure. I devoured these books. Loved them like nothing else mattered. There was another book series too, similar to the vein of Goosebumps but I can’t remember the series. I do remember a clown and a cake and it looks absolutely horrifying. Animorphs were also quite strange. And then Little House on the Prairie was just an Americana vacation. Outlets for my childhood energy. Reading must be practiced to enhance comprehension and the act of reading itself. Shuttered windows on some nice Montclair home. They are white-washed and nice and compliment the brick face front of the house. There are flowers growing in the garden. And this house is simply too much to be real for me. There are dozens like it. Outlets for marriage and parenting and the requirements of being a person. Call up the Bastards on Main Street and demand the fulfillment of your rights. The telephone are ringing off the hook now. Old rotary phones, black and blaring. Toys on the floor that have not been picked up. Mistaken otter with his whiskers trembling, dives into the water and makes a run for it. His silky sheen fades out in the aqua distance. Stranger to so many. Hot sticky humidity where your clothes just cling to you. Sacred Starbucks chalice, replacing churches in the real estate game. My controller’s broken for this one. I am –

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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