centered, blared like sun oil on the face
burning witch desire bouncing pogostick
hunting like a caveman reproducing like mad for dinner.

trips come tricky trottling through thorn arrows
master purple atmospheres soaring through
winds suffocating like a mad man's grip.

my feet slip short of stepping forward,
five steps backwards into a delicatessen
with five ornary orange uncles eating away thanksgiving leftovers.

flip fat fists into mittens and shovel
diamonds off the driveway
daddy comes home today.
and the waves of people scream for joy not for sorrow.

crockpot broiling like benson burner's boiling
black charred churned chunks of ham delight.
This is the winter, this is the winter.
Slip me some eggnog, with a little grim-bottled gin
to keep me warm tonight.

12/09/2006

Posted on 12/09/2006
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