Sleep Little Birds

A large bag with a hazy shade of an inside which holds in its palm two different things: sleep and little birds yet to fly but the bag flies on its own of its own will and wish and bill to kill the drill bit whirrs of the world’s largest dreamland economy soaring up, up and away breaking ceilings of glass and hardwood and the sky too eggshells with chocolate coatings cream-filled with carbon copies of speeding cars moving away from the windows of starting up electric motors seven hundred and thirty-seven megawatts power in the eyes of the beholder wearing spectacles thick frames of horn and cattle beef sandwich walking with bells around their necks, sprinklers little, two number one for salt and the other for pepper sprinkling sneezes and fear and face masks painted with surgical precision three layers of overcoat of Gogol and thirty-one layers of paint microscopic and soft like pillows of fur and feather fighting in the hands of children in bedrooms of afternoons of nothing else or nothing much to do with ants of half-eaten lollipop candies red and yellow guava flavor pure juice in which the stallion is the best track and the most played on radio and Russian fans say Ween are as good as if not better than The Beatles and hence should be celebrated more, more, more for their originality with coffee and beer that is frothier than the rest of the world that drinks sake the way they do when the sun never sets in speeding magnetic rail bullet trains and handmade comic books of never-ending curiousity and the beauty imagining Buddha and Christ as roommates peals of laughter and the word peal doesn’t fit better anywhere else at all if not here and that is a good sign – a sign better than the sigh or the sight of a thumbs up from a traffic constable from the other side of the road busy trying unsuccessfully as can one see, to solve a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle in her lunch break