My sadness drinks ink by the stanza, chews on pen caps, paints the walls silverfish. It ties the earth around my neck as I feed syllables to the birds. My sadness coughs sheep. It dips the clouds in gravy. I only buy eggplants when I’m drunk. I never pay extra for guacamole. I climbed a mountain so I could call and tell you I climbed a mountain, but I didn’t read the Surgeon General’s Warning on the side of the mountain, so I didn’t know about the lack of cellphone reception or the thinning air sneaking out of the cracks in my ribs. Everything smells purple. It doesn’t matter. My sadness beats a heart so crisp. I dream in lisps. I take five pills every morning to forget the definition of feel. I take the batteries out of my remote control and put them in my coffee. Could we not? The strawberries are ripe. The blossoms are here. I’m teaching my daughter how to cocoon. I put a picture of a milk carton on the side of a milk carton in case the milk carton gets lost. I don’t know, how about you? There is lavender in my taste in the window-stained fog in the wrist of your tongue. How could anyone know the taste buds of a dead boy’s tongue? Someone put onions in the attic and now the ceiling is crying.