O Poetry

It's a metaphor.

the louder the better she said as I unscrewed the plastic cap from my plastic bottle. time would tell if she was right but as for right now I'm panicking because her husband definitely heard us as he came up the stairs and there's a good three story jump down into the green green grass below. so I bounce out the window like a pale white rabbit and watch that bright green green grass fly straight back up.

and it's wicked in a way. but how can I resist such a pretty little name as Page. It rolls off the tongue like spitting marbles but god is it one hell of a name. cherubs would line up and die with gun in hand and blade in mouth to sing that name: Page. pure as a windmill's breeze Page can flutter from your fingers but never from your thoughts. Page is beautiful.

Page is saying c'est la vie when your sails have torn and the horizon stretches bluer than the throat of Robert Johnson. I've scaled walls higher than this, in my day, but never for such a Page.

so that leads you to wonder what Page could have possibly meant as I unscrewed the plastic bottle cap from the plastic bottle, when the only horizon was a line of vodka and the sick air pocket above it, and the ship was lofty and buoyant and headed straigh for a waterfall, when she lays before me on the bed with red sheets and a red comforter. time would tell if she was right, if louder were better, but I would not be there to hear the answer.

and so I'm flailing madly and falling fast. I can hear her throwing my blue jeans from the same windowsill and my does that permafrost look dense down there.