If your his-story
Were laundered
On the public square,
Extracting dirt and lie

Then hung out to dry
For all to see

Would you claim it?

Or would you deny
Those black-eyed holes
Glaring
From your wife-beaters...

Shards of glass
Sparkling
From your backyard....

Skulls and bones
Cackling
From your closet...

Projecting only
Those glossy golden eggs
Like cliff the eta carinae
From st luke's
In the village

'til those cluckin' hens came home...

~ P
(#ThoseCluckinHens)
12/25/2014