Rocket launcher energy blasts off and explodes into a million little tiny pieces of confetti. There will be no space mission today. An energy that cannot be contained, that is worse than nuclear at the subatomic level, sometimes volatile, mostly unstable. Sporadic outbursts uncontrolled. The many poppings of birthday balloons so that the ground is now littered with a deflated rainbow. If the floor is lava I have already burned up and am talking to you from the afterlife. Hear me now, God-like, Oz-like through this megaphone throughout the school. You are dead, but you are needed in the Main Office. It’ll only take a minute. Time-ticking hands go around 360 degrees like the Exorcist. I’d imagine that’s what it feels like if you’re a clock. Some hell-raising neverending task. Lunette the Clown didn’t even know what she was talking about. Acid-trip of a children’s television show. Hospital white, crumpled gown. And I am scared of what’s to come. Trauma makes me rambunctious once I’m on the right trip. I cannot stop and refuse to calm down and my mind becomes excitable laser beams wanting to scan, understand, and destroy everything. Medicated parsnip, turnip, nip-slip. Janet Jackson at the Super Bowl and somehow Justin Timberlake is untainted by this still. Sexism in America? Ludicrous hazing? Slimey marshmallow tree stump, Egyptian captains log. Wicker basket ships.