JC Reilly

where the sky dances between mint and sticky and everything you say turns into bubbles of ink that strike the earth like copper pennies.  This is unusual.  Normally, the words you speak transform into swarms of bees that carry off the hat you are wearing.  I drink a glass of milk.  Every dark feeling can be cured with milk, and I have eighteen more glasses in my near future to consume.  But you don’t want to know this.  What matters to you are the stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.  What matters to you are institutions.  I have often thought that love is an overturned turtle whose feet quiver helplessly in the air.  Righting the turtle does not right love, but it is a start.  I will tell you this sometime on a day that does not end in why.  I will tell you this.  For now, I drink my milk and listen to you.  I count the clouds, sticky cats on a bed of mint.