the lavender, head-banging, mosh pit style, told me first.

 the murmuring whoosh of the chimney echo confirmed the unruly backyard scene.

i can find omens in the disciplined, bold font of my coffee cup:

DEFCON 1. prepare with maximun readiness, girl. 

like a mountain dew-amped, teenage boy, pop shoving his skateboard on the sunday morning church steps, this monday flurry is here to stir shit up.

my arms embrace the uproar. 

the billowing of my skirt and eddy in my already, mussed hair, apprise me of my participation in this radical pirouette. 

farewell to feeling liable for toxins and pests outside my jurisdiction. 

so long to the leeches who blood suck on manifested tumult and stories. 

my cup is awash with infatuation for my fellow playmates who romp with me on jungle gyms of truth.

the wind hurls our swings. sky-high we observe with birds’ eyes, appreciating the gifts and beauty even in the cracked, graffitti’d concrete of a slum. 

who else wants to go twirling off sidewalks with me?