Sure

I’ll dance with you at weddings,
I’ll dance with you if bombs and
small arms were our serenade.
I’ll dance with you in afternoon traffic wearing a top hat
I’ll dance through walls with you
like shadow cat.

I’ll twist and shout until the sky tears and heaven falls out.

Teleport

If I disappeared into the air,

would I be mist filled rainbows in garden hoses 

or would I be even less of a memory? 

Where did all of this stuff come from? 

If I appeared out of nowhere;

each proton electrifying from dead space to recreate my body,

would you be as surprised as me that anything is real?

“Things have a life of their own,” the gypsy proclaimed with a harsh accent. “It’s simply a matter of waking up their souls.” 

-Gabriel Garcia Marquez, One Hundred Years Of Solitude