in my mind,
i work at a third world convention,
bleeding saliva and avocado paint
behind a mule's *** like
seeking coverage was difficult
or something.
now it's past
the pillaging of painted americans,
valleys once rolled with corn and feather's weight,
but seized by nation's serious fathers.
the table creaks as sister
literally screams, "Grace!"
and the cotton tablecloth even
bows its head in poultry's spicy scent.
i said it was past,
un-remembered after a
murderer (more than)
antagonized another's HDTV
(bold, high, pronounces, and shrieks
more shivering-ly
than when a spider stepped on my toe).
now there are halos
beginning to blush,
vibratos crescendoing to
the last of leaf's sultry breath.
Noel was large-eyed,
carols twirling lighter than snow.
they made the Lord
wonderous, because o,
my baby king,
the manger was not a velvet cushion,
and neither will his
(or your)
days to come.