The Legal Limit

The legal limit usually goes by

the minute. And the limbic system

by the hour. Paul Revere rode

through my 5th grade brain and

keeps riding still and again.  I remember

the ride of Paul Revere. And now

the bar blurs in bright greens

like an Irish pub in March. The legal

limit usually goes on the Midnight Ride.

I get invited because my history

tattles, like orange juice when you’re

expecting milk. The legal limit’s usually

not jaundiced much. I take some of my

heart and smoosh it with my broken

brain and nestle it in too much skin

drawn on an etch-a-sketch, captured

by a flirting camera lens and then the drinks

are filled again. The legal limit runs

like a horse around the room announcing:

The British are coming! The British

are coming! But nobody cares because

they always bring good wine

and Monday is not to eat anyway. A flurry

of people are excited about sleeping,

they fall asleep to watch each other,

we give someone our place on the bed

to fall free flopping from the top of it.

*This poem was constructed using words that the #wwis scrambler lifted from my statuses. I used the sometimes strange juxtapositions, added some, and arranged this poem. I found it a really fun exercise for thinking about connections.

10 thoughts on “The Legal Limit

    1. Thanks! If you have Facebook, here is a link to the app:

      I don’t know anything about the privacy or anything else, but I lifted several interesting juxtapositions from the “generated” statuses. Most of them don’t make full sense as they are though. It was a nice, “get out of your own head” exercise for me.

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