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Dec 2011
When I hear a concealed clock ticking,
I think it's some shouldered past jello grenade
ready to chastise my fletched thumbs.

Like the last time Sandman drew supper with his knees,
and decided to fling cherry cobbler at my nose,
I realized this homeless perfume actually belonged to Mother.

Her pearls redeem her complexion,
milk marrow of silk against her nose--
three strikes dawdling their tongues
from underneath tin necks.

Steady, rinse, exfoliate:
but those are difficult to do
when your rib cage cracks
like the last octave
of a reddening audience.

Brother thinks the tree skirt is soft,
coddling his pats and rabbits
below a ranch full o' pine scented apples.

Sister wonders if she should bring new girl home,
(met at 1:33 AM on 23rd Street.
Apartment documented to smell like baby powder)
but friends are friends are friends are friends,
just friends as furrowed Daddy repeats to himself.
Even "Hallowed be thy name..." confuses the CCD out of him.

"Cancel Alabama's trip this year;
the bees will be humming in their own candle wax.

Besides, who wants to hug Nana
when her breath doubles over in grilled salmon?"
Written by
     --- and Misnomer
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