dwelling in the bull’s pen. lie
the very peculiar mr. prince.
finding himself in a situation.
hiding from a potential mess.
this rodeo. in his imagination.
next to him sat a nasa spaceship.
wrecked. with lettering that stated
“New England 7” and a sign, “Come In.”
without hesitation, he stepped into this
decorated racing striped thing and crazy
lights were blinking. as he was thinking,
“what happens next, a visit from Hal Fishman?”
bam. on the console. pops out a television.
with a mercury reflective surface as he sees
his tears drip an unusual color of crimson.
on the screen. level with Hal’s lazy eye.
read a bold italic caption, “Want To Fly?”
electricity streamed as he touched it.
he belted a good scream as he felt it.
tingling. pins and needles. numbed.
a thought bubble above his head read “yes.”
suddenly the sound of an engine and
computer’s voice shouting, “New England 7”
a switching sound, then “Activation.” his
only words, “good ghosts in heaven!”
shaking. rumbling. mid-air suspension.
grab something. quick. anything connecting with
the microphone. sand-bagged stand in an orange
construction cone. a little bird. one wing. broken.
xxtreme emotion. no one understands. hold on.
speak: he was silent.
unique: be a puppet.
wresting: pile driver.
reality: he was no higher
than a 5 and a half foot stage.
towering over people half his age.
his mind went blank. as he shot
into space. seeking the truth.
without a parachute.
onto a cloud.
with his choices.