Calm

Happiness is deadly. Procrastinate amid generalized joy; You still sing - but don't have to shout; tired of the tongue-tied fistfight. Can't worry about calm. Once-a-year light at 8:30 tonight. The house-bottom bricks past the point of light the treetops turn a sunset shade of green with last rays licking leaves. The firefly-night delight, swing-sitting take-in-everything insight, meander on the bike, sackclothed women with hoses on the lawn, group goodbyes upon a porch, summer not for long. Tightrope walkers tree to tree in Trinity B, stick hands to highfive strangers, oh yellow-green jerseys - go Brazil! - dogs, always dogs - please, have a kid instead. I'm stuck on a stunning white dress, fluffy bathrobe, warm towel, my sweet success, half-baked bluster, waffles I insist are morally provocative, but a first-prize smile takes the cake. Who is to blame for this dance-sing-body-mind harmony? A woman named Justin Timberlake. Ms. Rhythm stopped my heart, an arrhythmia, mumbling mumble-tee-peg; rained waves of vocab from the sky, she wanted logic to die- to prompt an effect - your deliberate intentions are just like a shipwreck. She'd sing rubbish that rang like a siren: "You are sleeping and beautiful. " "You will never know yourself. Creep alone, unconscious as you sing Sanskrit-speak, spinning at perfectly harmoniously satanically satellite suborbital outer-space speeds, forever peeking at the pink edge of dawn from the dark side of the moon."