Quixotism

     After dinner with friends, I stood in the bathroom at the Asian Buffet and stared at this picture on the wall and giggled. For some reason, I thought about my tenth grade English teacher who asked me if I had  read the book after every report I turned in and the senior English teacher who knew EXACTLY what every poem meant--how boring, to know everything.

     I thought what a silly girl I was to be standing in the bathroom at a buffet laughing at butterfly wings and Don wanting to fight such soft things. I thought about how I always want to slip a butterfly wing in my mouth but don't because it'll ruin 'em and to lick a dead butterfly wing seems akin to necrophilia-pestophilia if I may, but I love pesto...insectophilia...yeah.

     So, I just imagine their wings feel like the skinniest part of the hibiscus petal on my tongue-cool and membraneous, and maybe the taste is papaya-ish if those are words, and even if they aren't. And then I think of all that color, like fireworks in my mouth, and wonder if fireworks have a taste other than gunpowder, and which one would taste the best. 

     I want to open my mouth and have a thousand butterflies rush out--an insect/firework geyser. I want to film it and see what it means.