3 minutes of madness.

i am nothing but trouble. the good kind of trouble, in which you think you might have fun if you just close your eyes and pretend you've made a promise you can keep so they will throw an old-fashioned ticker tape parade in your honor with your arms open wide enough to catch the moon before it drops behind the mountain where you've hidden treasures that can only be detected by magic spectacles made of candy glass and chicken wire by the brainiac with the golden heart and the dog who resembles groucho marx without the moustache while smoking a cigar that was rolled by nimble cuban fingers in the back room of a cottage snuggled on the eastern shore of lake champlain as it spits sun perch into the fryer for a supper planned well in advance of the ice floes slipping into view from a pigeon-crusted rooftop straight out of hitchcock's damaged soul that rocked the gown worn by the late blonde when she reached for the receiver and asked for mercy on the morning everything we love about macaroni and cheese became a poster child for the past sins of omitted quotations attributed to the twains and nary the twains of longing and hope in the midst of melted irish butter on a stack of platters playing songs that remind us of who we love and why we would rather breathe.