Rice without the sticky,
magic beans with no fo fum,
the fortune cookie that reveals: “You like Chinese food.”
Lying like a fish,
smelling like one,
and drinking like one;
I know the complexion of the day.
So don’t give me that measly inch
that eternity is grey,
that the home away from home
in the sky of skies is grey.
Grey means more than one thing.
A sharp chap in a shark suit is grey
and how about the business end of a coyote?
The dim gossip of birds?
Give me the whole foot of truth:
that red’s the color to worry on.
Red’s a hot corpse of an idea—
a minefield for a stomping ground,
too much minus-ing,
or some bark scraped off the knee.
If Golightly’s got some mean reds,
then I am underwhelmed.
Mean reds are the end of a cigar,
while I’ve got a brain full of bonfires
and pyrotechnic curls.