By R.G. Johnson
I was standing on a rat-filled dumpster preaching to a group of orthodox cat burglars about the dire need for honesty in government. From the other side of the kitchen, you laughed and said something about a Spanish horse doing double back flips with a hoof-grab on the backside. Sometimes it feels like we’re speaking in different hues. Red and blue make confusion. Then, as I am about to lose faith in your ability to love, one of the burglars asks me if I would burn for my beliefs, and I get a wonderful idea. You and I should have a date night. We’ll set the forest on fire and drink cheap strawberry wine while God decides if he’s going to let us keep our apartment. Then, we’ll make love on that giant beige satellite dish out in front of your mother’s trailer park. When the light hits the metal just right, your nipples look like Paris in the Springtime.