Thrill Wanting Wormhole

We’re hiding from a tornado in a supermarket bathroom that smells of fresh bread and shit as if painted toenails and love are the same thing when the rain turns into hail and speaks to the clouds, Clouds, make a funnel and kill people in a strip mall. And wind starts screaming, I don’t want this life, I want something better and you’re coming with me. And then a tree says, I can’t bend any farther as houses and pets are vacuumed up like flesh pulled into the mouths of piranhas, the air is howling like a fed-up Gospel preacher on a Sunday morning and everyone is getting blown and sucked through the ceiling along with packaged meat and Coca- Cola cans and the sky is fluorescent gray-green the way skies get when posed in the semi-erect, apocalyptic yoga move of Thrill Wanting Wormhole Forcing Death. That color quietly killed us before we died.