Can you taste the grainy thoughts of shapeshifting hysteria,
high on the bicycle spokes of yesterday’s light,
the kids already knew the ice cream’s time was left to melt,
this spectacular allure of sugar and naps cycle through a century,
traditions of childhood summers reconvened in the halls of retirement homes,
halls made wider than normal for electric scooter derbies held daily,
men collide and chase old skirts like it was the summer of 1945,
they dreamed of us in between cigar fumed poker sessions,
plastic elements fragmented into jittery calculations,
and they were never too young to learn,
they taught us how to operate inside a freebased dream,
and realized that we were born to wind around the bends,
corners bent to eclipse tomorrow's uncharted trends,
what happens when they witness ramifications implode,
can you help them and observe your disgust honorably,
can you pretend not to show disdain for their secrets,
can you learn to forget,
forget to show regret,
to forge the needle that would stitch up the times,
those times where unresolved histories seemed to own the night,
will you allow these subtle familiarities to lull you into warm justification,
alone to be seduced by your own naive compositions,
salt crystals guard the rims of cocktail glasses shelved high,
the usual order of things would be on the brink of catastrophe,
but the unusually high expectations are shrink wrapped tight,
even if the guardians are always close to ignition,
rainy Sundays would still welcome Monday shyly,
their epoch of denial was a monsoon,
bacon grease would need to retire to rejuvenate the realm of time traveling junkies,
and they traveled back to tell the kids about flavor-shaved weapons of ice,
and to teach the others about royalty and titles,
and how we should always call them snow cones,
never shaved ice once the syrups been poured over,
snow cones don’t pretend to be anything they’re not.
