Purple People-Eaters and Blue Dinosaurs

A ball of yarn swathed in brown flesh rolling down asphalt

hills it keeps getting bigger and bigger

like an evil snowball.

Worst of all, it smells

like melted plastic.

There are so many spaceships and

the air conditioning is just right. I

don't want to leave just yet.

Clenched stomachs and tight

throats over porcelain sound

like wails, especially behind closed doors

and fake naps. They say it's dangerous to tear

it out though. Teleportation, after all, is unmaking

and remaking. A little ray pulls

your atoms apart at light

speed, piece by stinking piece.

I had to learn how to sing instead.

My head would buzz until it

went numb, and then it would

feel a little bit like the A/C,

and our hands touching.

Or, I guess, not quite as satisfying,

although everything smells a little nicer,

which I'm learning is a good thing.

My bruised forehead agrees.

The atoms that touched my

hand aren't the ones that would

remake you.

That's okay.