The Inevitability of Grilled Cheese
If you're reading this know:
I am literally on fire.
It's not your fault, I get it,
really, no worries,
but just by opening this page
you've triggered a series
of a series of a series of a series
of events
like a man possessed by the day
the red-head in his dreams existed
but now is hiding somewhere around the next
corner & walks out of his house knowing
it will only take a nickel spinning on a counter top
to fracture the distance between realities
instead he sits down for breakfast
in the cafe with the full-lipped waitress
orders grilled cheese
understands completely cheese gives him gut-ache
& as the plate wobbles down
with of all things grilled cheese
he launches the contents
yellow in her hair
sandwich sliding down the
wall with the wooden door he blows from its hinges
upstairs to find
the flesh of Karmic desertion
& being Irish with a certain operatic flare
soaks me in Weasers (whiskey....please keep up)
smokes his last "Fag"
swearing the next person who reads this
lights me up like Christmas morning
know: being on fire is like having sex with a clown
it's fire, it gets a little hot,
faces tend to melt.
-J.R. Pearson