warm cry of smile

Sunday slide

off trance lemonade stand

memory sweat gleam

Cold rectangle houses.

On couches we'd sit,

Nintendo played out our

romances with 8-bit

princess queens, who dreamed

of glisten, thick, 128-bit

showers.

We'd fight for hours

to get that kiss

of bliss

demanded by

latch-key personalities

as we dreamed larger than

ourselves.

It had become difficult to breathe.

The air outside

toxic to our needs

as the signs of the suburbs

outlawed the glide

of our wings.

Those things we deemed most fun;

the roll of our boards,

the chrome of our bikes,

the music in which our rhythm

was found

and at last the sun

were taken from us.

As behind the scenes,

litigation doomed our views

to air-conditioned tombs,

wherein pixilated screens of the TV

skewed the world.

Though the sun gleamed,

our dreams became electric,

entwined,

encryptic

to code

bound to the nodes

of our frontal lobe.