lapsus linguae justwrite

I assume the lunch position as wet dreams slip from your mouth and we make a movie, a silent film because the whole world is a little bit drunk tonight, scorpions gazing at us from the corner, watching you spin and really understanding movement for the first time. My tongue finds the marriage of a walnut and an apple, coconut milk like sweat on your chin, guttural music tumbling down the sides of mountains and swinging to you a face we can't forget. There are vines in the trees that wrap around our legs, women on horseback chest-deep in mud that is really ash, rain echoing off a roof that is no longer there, the men on the rafters wrapping each other in red tape. I watch almonds crawl over your hands for the second time and wonder how millipedes can be that small and still have two pairs of legs for each minuscule segment. Mine hurt just thinking about it, stair after stair until you want to jump off a cliff but you choose a ledge because your safety harness is just tight enough. The ground rushes forth and the trees follow like they were crouching beneath the mulch. The only metal I've seen that isn't rusted is the chrome on a beetle's back as it marches across a rock that is a continent, fire tumbling from my fingertips as moths circle me like snow and Canadians dance, shout, my dreams inevitable, wet or not.