who deliver flowers and tell us what we can't, shouldn't, or won't do; who want to hire us a taxi, pack us off safe, tuck us in neat and tidy and cute and fuzzy warm in this desperately desperately dangerous world; who follow our nights ten feet behind, yelling at the silence that they will have to pick up our corpses; who make the truths of misery:

may your nights be full of bats. may the bats sweep along the river and free the water loose and mellow. may rats jump out at your sister and make her jump three feet until the laugh hits and makes you roll. may your bladder fill and strain against its pocket until you find an empty lot, squat, and tell yourself that all the lush twitter of leaves are actually lizards and not rats. may all the guards nod at you, call you bonita. may dead bluebirds erupt from under your feet, suddenly reanimated at the thought of your sadness. may you ignore the shouts of all the people who will turn your evening, take it into their hands, and tell you why the world is to be feared and not loved for all its rusted metallic 4am scent. may you.. may you..

a toast...

to living.