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I gotta lotta latte
zipping through my neurons
and my neurons are singing
a song of pirates and clipper ships.
If you could hear it
you would slip on your magic swirling shoes and follow me
... across the ocean blue ...
and I would take you down, away,
into the Tunnel o' Fright.
Don't worry.
I'll hold your hand.
Just be careful and mind the hook.
In the Tunnel o' Fright
I am a carnival sideshow
all by myself.
I have cotton-candy hair
and shining green skin
and eyes like festering Pez.
I am hideous and marvelous and ludicrous
and as I spin around
like a lemon pie
you'll feel compelled to dance
a caterpillar waltz
a butterfly jamboree.
If you listen carefully
I will whisper a song in Farsi
and tell you the great truths of the world.
If you kiss a clown on the cheek
you'll get white paint on your lips.
Bubbles are slippery
and consist of fairy atoms
chasing psychedelic rainbow tails.
Phenylketonurics can never drink Mountain Dew.
Fish are always singing.
It takes a mighty big spud
to knock down a column.
The Tunnel o' Fright
is paved in Astro-Turf and smells like teeth;
the walls taste thoroughly green.
It is populated by the doppelgaengers
of people just a little too tall to be jockeys
and turnpike tollbooth collectors
who can't afford their own cars.
I will introduce you to Wallace the Sod Farmer
(keeper of Jell-o and cold cuts,
roly-poly rancher extraordinaire),
and he will lead you back to your bullet-train bed
and fuzzy styrofoam dreams.
July, 1996
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