In bleak whiteness I hold
this little erroneous fabric
softer until the peanut butter
devours me and consumes it
away to a better place where
the peanut gods will bow
and attempt not to touch it
and get their oils all over
the pattern which sticks against
nothing but pops at every
question, second guesses
it’s own decisions so that
it causes the yellow to
scrape across the blue
and make a diamond
without achieving the
interlocking shapes that
the music once did for
freedom a buttery
guard might look the
other way while I burst
down the door and
pick it up and put it back
for the sake of appreciation
and the foreknowledge
that I may return, and
the way it was
for one moment
I’ve ascended above the
slime city soaring across
the traitors and seized the
fabric while kicking their
soft appreciative faces
to the pulps that explode
a brighter shade of something
that has now stained the cloth
on the place where order had
been maintained.