Imagination

I bought an eighty-inch TV, just for the box— set it up like a teepee. Jump in like tee-hee! Throw the screen out the window. Let it crash. Now there’s an 80” stuck in my lawn, and people slow down just to whisper, “Wow… this guy’s artsy.” Turns out Mary didn’t even have a lamb. She was just a crack head Life is better made of lead— Anyway— I’m the Wall King. Just walking. Dripping with metaphors, casually passing a bar so packed with puns I can smell a librarian’s breath from the sidewalk like:o shhh… no talking. I wave. Web spinner, sinner—what’s for dinner? Probably canned beans and regret. I’m a different thinker. Opened my brain like a paint can and painted the gray a little pinker. No dreams. Noted. Polyurethane coated. Polly, you’re a pain with your coats and coats and coats of— Breathe. Breathe useless airs. Angel lets me breathe. Devil always stares. But I cares… I cares. I cares! That’s when I hear it— “Hi, I’m Death.” Oh hey. Didn’t expect you this early. Death shrugs: “As a frequent spectator… take a side quest.” So I do. I walk down to the park where squirrels are doing calculus and pigeons speak in Morse code. I sit on a bench made of half-memories and DayQuil residue and I think: Energy is everything. It exists inside your mind. Space is confidential. Which is why we keep bumping into each other’s potential. Suddenly—flashback. Sandler, on TV, taught me about my oblongata— made connections like: “Hi, I’m the brain. What’s up, pain and suffering?” And I answer: Nada. Then I freeze. Manual breathing activated. Chest rising like it has stage fright. Autonomous… imagination… and a Beatle told me once— Ob-la-di, ob-la-da—life goes on, too. And I laugh. Because I’m sitting in a teepee made from a TV box, eating cold soup with Death, and nobody can tell me this isn’t art you see.