The grocery store is full of human corn on the cobs.

They walk around like stiff, yellow erections.

They’re dressed in green husks, unzipped, the cornsilk is hair spilling out at the chest or the top of a pointed head.

They wander aimlessly, brainlessly.

“Where’s the milk?”

“Where’s the apple pie?”

How do you survive

In the real world?

Golden niblets of humans.

Boisterous in the world.

Sometimes I simply cannot take it. I’m often screaming without actually screaming.

It’s gotten to the point that I’m geographically agoraphobic.

A pill poppin’ marionette with broken bones hiding in the clothes closet, shaking, quaking.

I sit here at this desk in the red corner with shaded sun to my right and I’m trying to write.

It’s like trying to crank cement through a meat grinder at times. I end up with a bowl of gray dust.

And then I think of smoked fish on the lakeshore in the days of my youth. That taste lingers in the memory canal.

I think of green parks and trees and spinning playgrounds of glossy plastic.

I think about how it was waking up in a castle without worry rotting in my guts.

Why do we have to grow up and battle the world like emotional cyborgs?

I am tired from battling the world every five seconds or so.

I just want to sail to somewhere peaceful.

Like another country not so frayed by the ridiculous.

But does that even exist? Is there an exoskeleton unbleached?

Maybe another planet then, another galaxy that isn’t made of spilled milk.

A planet void of idiots, these pong bong corn on the cob people.

A planet with plenty of coffee shops and maps and libraries.

There must be somewhere else to go, to plant feet and dreams.

Hot water, salt, butter. It’s another day.

Let me swing with love on a porch of green beneath a blue sky.

Let me find peace in these days of over bloated derision.

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