Elliott Freeman



Everything is a lugnut bell-song fit, and when it’s right, it’s impossibly right; my life is a Rube
Goldberg: here, the Zippo cuts a thread with spear-prick fire; here, a croquet ball gutters into my
toaster; my blood is full of acoustic rock, my feet navigate sidewalk cracks to hopscotch rumbas–
serotonin thrill, trill of birdsong and catcalls, there are no full stops–life rides a run-on em dash
like I’m surfing on a bronco’s back; trick of smile, thrumming guitar neurons hooked to a tilted
amp; everything soundtracked by the Beach Boys and I love things that I always should have
loved: the way a good joke purples a friend, the breathless moment before the laugh takes hold
and the way jaw muscles draw back like tightened crochet loops.

It does not last forever. It does not last long. There’s a voice that says, too often correctly: This
Red Bull Buddha socialite is only a beautiful symptom.


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