This is the past, present, and future twisted into one gigantic psychedelic Panchero’s burrito, black beans as expressions of longing, lounging silently next to the mild salsa we concocted the last time we forgot where you ended and I began, and layers of thick stringy cheese oozing from sentiments only slightly laced with cliché. And you choose the meat, or are you vegetarian? This is sixth-dimensional slippable kissable tortilla molding fun, just look at it before they press it down, we could enlarge it and build houses or SOMETHING with such material, and line our bricks and promises with guacamole, only to watch it harden in the sun and attract insects of unusual size. God you are beautiful wrapped up in that shell, but it will only stay for two or three days before it must be eaten, and if I eat the shell do I eat you by proxy? I can never be sure. In fact, what is sure when flipping through bales of chopped iceberg lettuce we stumble upon the future, and it already happened? In these arms you can flip backwards into what we thought was time and pull the universe’s fire alarm, watch as the primordial creatures pass by with words and grunts of greeting, the aliens wonder where we’ve been all these years, and suddenly we’ve torn through the burrito and found nothing in center but a warm spot shadowing it’s presence.


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