My life fits inside a sentence.
There aren’t any hours in any days
that can’t be represented with a noun and non-fantastic
verb, and maybe an adjective thrown in. Maybe icy
or starving or blue or dilated.
My nights are orange.

This cheese grater in my hand has created enough orange
zest to deserve a life sentence
in the museum of me. The grand opening will be delayed because I’ll die late,
lying in my coffin dazed,
my families stares, the preacher stares, you stare: all icy,
even a cold reception is fantastic.

shake the two liter, it explodes and the kitchen floor is Fanta sticking
to my shoes, now my soles are stained orange.
This is where I keep things I want to remember. I see
my middle school locker combination arguing with the living room sofa about sentience,
all the poems I’ve written about daisies
are laughing with the first room I ever got high in, the wallpaper is dilated.

Every chef will die elated,
because it’s the garnishes that make a meal fantastic.
The fryer baskets in heaven are made of ivory, its been days
since ive been able to scrub this orange
grease off of my hands, the only thing that counts is the sentiment.
Don’t rub the lemon twist around the rim until you’ve added ice.

The frost moves like mold. Icy spores
move over my eyes and nose an ears. My pupils dialate
and I see nothing but fuzz and blur and haze. Is that a sentence?
If not, isn’t that fantastic?
The palate of my restaurant is going to be orange,
with maybe a hint of lilac, like an easy day.

Dry rub the lion filet with daisy
petals, collect all the fire wood you see,
and when the flames attract the birds and bugs, you catch them oohing,
de-feather and de-leg and dehead the dialated
blooms of parsley and basil, simmer and sear until fantastic.
I can’t follow this recipe Chef, I need you to send hints

in the orange sunsets, once the day ends
make the stars whisper sentences I can’t understand, and the icy
moon wink at me and maybe then I can die and believe I’m dead, it’s not fantastic.

© 2024 Jake Price