Jamison Crabtree

in eden; there was a man a woman; a tgi friday’s

; with good service that your parents would be alright going to get dinner at; there was super slow-mo and fast forward; and they weren’t mutually exclusive so the hummingbird and the turtle were fine with each other; and there was background music and it set the proper tone for sleeping under a tree or jumping off the edge of a quarry and breaking your head at the bottom; there was even appropriate music for when your head was growing back together; there was a way to put your fingers to your lips that would let you talk to the birds; there was a big purple army tank and hand grenades and those other grenades with the stick coming out of them like some robotic drumstick and there were flowers; and readymades; and a few nice Picasso pieces that you could press your skin against without hurting them; and there were sculptures of most of the animals that never existed; but not all of them; and you you you; you could ride them all; without worrying about being asked to leave; and there were fruit platters; and a school where you could learn how to draw boobies and wieners or make comfortable furniture or brew up new drugs; or you could even learn to create the illusion that there was a bird in your heart and a hare in your hat and that there was never room in your sleeves for anything but arms; it was eden; like I said; so the moon didn’t yet have a face to judge us with and so our nights were still secret and eden was a miserable place to be; because consequence was impossible; because spilling juice across the floor was no different than having to bury your parents in separate holes two weeks apart from each other;

he wears gloves to undress himself; the moon                 blows us kisses

; the moon tells us it’s not a face at all; says it is a bunny rabbit that practices medicine; we were so-so vain to ever think otherwise it mumbles; so maybe that’s not what it says at all; and the rain turns to hail and I am happy; like you; for the first time in seconds; happy tonight; because the whiskey was terrible and no one here knows how to make ice without a knife or a shovel; darling stranger; even the moon can be lonely at three a.m.; it texts and I could be sure it was drunk on wine again if you hadn’t kissed the red from its lips; if it wasn’t dancing in a puddle on the car-torn; wat r u doing cutie? can I cmme oevr?; I say yes because I want to be in love; but she arrives; and she’s not her at all; she’s a redhead in a red dress; angry; she asks you; what did you expect would happen; as she walks toward the ocean you name the stars; do you think you’re making any sense; her red dress has turned black; her hair; black; the ocean curves back up into the night; regardless of what’s hidden inside; and you can’t separate her form from the foam; and there’s sand in your shoes; the moon drowns and a red dress beaches itself on the shore; seaweed or hair; it’s not making any sense; and no one is ever coming back; which I am only sorry to tell you; because; I wanted to be the comfort that I am not;