Speed Freak Onion

Fantasy and language take a vacation.

Speed Freak Onion

The bottle said “Drink me”.
This was something I didn’t do lightly.
It had been an ordinary Thursday,
put 2000 nails into 1000 boards;
washed my hands and watched TV.
The cat speaks a language I understand.
I am a pink high chair feeding babies,
a giant banana fighting crime,
a black Porsche that talks jive.
The newspaper tells the story,
my hands were never this hairy.
I’m sick of raiding chicken coops and chasing cars.
I’ve seen enough full moons.
I’m tired of virgins waiting behind open curtains.
I want the reality of everyone else,
to be the person sitting next to you on the bus
only once, never seen again,
to hear the voices of anyone but myself.
And feel the ground rise under me.
And feel the onion slowly unravel
between my fingers.
And feel my own hand holding itself.