To live inside the lava lamp I bought last Sunday morning at the garage sale from the dead neighbor’s step-son whose begonia garden we trampled retrieving our baseballs every summer twilight before she’d yell at us from her kitchen window— Little Demons!
To have the Jordan rookie cards stuck in between our spokes making our Toys R Us BMXs zoom faster than the General Lee and K.I.T.T. combined; even Hasselhoff and Them Dukes, Them Crazy Dukes would envy us, flying faster than Armageddon’s heartbeat down Ibex Avenue dodging soccer moms while the crickets rooted us on.
To be a fiery droplet tickling gravity: aloof compound more comfortable in dorm rooms than board rooms, brilliant 5 o’clock shadows starlets, searing globular metaphorical sinners, Warhol following peyote infused twice-removed long lost cousins of jellyfish swimming upstream, downstream, mainstream magma mainstays illuminating the way into pop culture ubiquity.
I was never allowed to own a lava lamp as a kid, because mom said they were tacky and didn’t match the décor. And because she said they reminded her of the devil.
(Newly published at Praxilla)