Limes

They call him Osmosis, the Picnic Expert. Things about him that you need to know, you'll learn sooner or later. He's a treasure on full display but all dumped out together and tangled. Watch him run through your mind when the lights are low and the breeze is warm off the sea. Let him run rampant and steal the ruffles from your bag lunch. Look at the look in his eye. Let him look at you looking at the look in his eye and see if you can see your eye reflected. Slap him some five. Hard on the palm so there is a sting and a warmth and an itching. That's the histamine producing slap. It's causes happiness to sweep up into your head. Where does happiness reside? In your head or in your pinstripe body latex? I don't know. But I do know that happiness is in the way I walk when I sashay down the boardwalk all full of tonic and gin. Come walk lockstep with me and ring the bell. The bell that hangs from the sky and resides in your jammy smile. Enough about that kind of talk. That's what they call old fashioned lyrical trash talk. Mama calls it Honolulu Trash Talk. I call it Sausage Bits. That's my favorite pizza. It brings me joy. Especially if every single bit of sausage is twingling with neuroblasters. Little crystals that affect the way I feel and hidden in the sausage. And me eating the pizza with you in the rain and chugging limeade and crouching down into the grass and falling into the earth like a prelude for death. I dislike the concept of death. I prefer hang gliding.