pull ups, reality, the Slayer

maybe your house is a boat
and you keep your whiskey on a string in the deep waters
maybe you can't name the movie
on TV in your old room.
and you broke up with Madonna last night,
'cause you were too drunk to put up with her crap.
maybe you woke up late
or you fell so far, so fast,
trimming back your butterfly robot wings
of copper wire and corrugated tin.

maybe Morgan and McDonalds
and the preponderance of vintage clothing stores
Love Saves The Day!
and Rogan Josh
and Jose Cuervo
are making a dent in the world?

or maybe it's incontrovertible missives
making meanings of these scenes who
play like home-movies from God's beach house
on my broken white shutters.

maybe the smell of charcoal grills
wet dirt
the howls of cats and little belgian kids and stomping German feet
are blinks between the blueberry tables and the
waiting decks of Buffy's ship,
and mister-babies aren't the meaning of life.

or maybe i'm crazy. it's been said.