I saw a turkey circling, high above Manhattan
his bronze and copper feathers ripped in the sun,
and it looked like it was having an awful lot of fun.

He looked proud, in those clouds—majestic and delicious,
I could picture him sprawled out, on our Thanksgiving dishes.
Then I thought, chastisingly, “Wow, in a way, that’s kind of vicious.”

I opened the glass doors—we were sitting on the sky-high terrace.
I thought I’d better check—so I wouldn’t later be embarrassed.
I called Karen (Lisa’s Mom), “You already got a turkey to prepare us?”

She was hand making apple and cherry pies, lining crust in the pans
“You bet!” She called, “One's dressed-up—and a honey-baked ham!”  
Closing the door, I yelled, through cupped hands, “Fly on Turkey—DO NOT LAND!”
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Songs for this:
It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year - Shrift remix by Andy Williams and Shrift
One Day More by Les Misérables Original London Cast Ensemble

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I made this year's Christmas playlist!
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_34.mp3

Son of Ham, slave of slaves, reigned.
Humiliated, but unrepentant, defiant, and unfearing,
They asked for one of theirs to be king.
Saul, anointed and prophesied, crowned king.
David, feigned madness, fought for the Philistines.

On my school laptop certain things are censored
some make sense,
like **** sites, cursing, and violence.
but some don't,
like words such as self harm, depression, suicide
why is it censored,
this addiction, this disease, this ending.
should it be hidden?
should it be kept inside?
should i stop talking?
should i stop writing?
or should it be considered a cry for help when i type the words      s-e-l-f  h-a-r-m, d-e-p-r-e-s-s-i-o-n, s-u-i-c-i-d-e

Jeg tager det stille og roligt denne gang,
jeg forventer intet af fremtiden,
men jeg forventer troskab og ærlighed, hvis jeg skal blive i det.

Jeg vil være der for ham og støtte ham,
men jeg vil hverken kontrollere ham eller bestemme over ham,
jeg vil stole på ham og lade ham nyde sit liv med sine venner og veninder, men jeg forventer han kun vil have min kærlighed og det er nok for ham.

Jeg kan virkelig godt lide ham, jeg er stolt af ham og elsker hans personlighed, han er helt sig selv og han er ikke bange for hvad andre tænker.

Jeg elsker når han kysser mig når vi vågner, nusser mig og putter sig helt op ad mig, hele natten, ligemeget hvor varmt det er, er han altid helt tæt på mig hele natten.

Han er fantastisk og han fandt mig og omvendt i en svær tid, men den tid har ændret mig både fysisk og psykisk. Jeg elsker mit nye jeg og det er sikkert også derfor det her er rigtigt denne gang, fordi jeg endelig har fundet mig selv og jeg elsker mig selv

Yea of course writing ideas unstoppably
burst asunder at the most inconvenient
opportunities such as driving Miss Daisy,
taking a shower, or using the bathroom.
Accursed ambition becoming a prolific
scrivener (case in point Stephen King)

Woolworth ridding, oddly lumbering
lackadaisically shoehorning out this
being from a self made gully. The jury
yet to decree if attempting to extricate
muss elf from tangled web of decades
old setbacks via literary output successful.

Every morning, noon and night, this chap
blunders, flounder, (like a phish out of water),
yet plod his shipshape reclusive quiet-natured
person along the boulevard of broken dreams.

Oft times, huff hind aye muss elf entering The
Dead Zone (bordering a Pet Sematary). Earlier,
a previous saunter found me surmounting
The Green Mile. Attendant in regard to these
Bag Of Bones, and Desperation to acquire

telephone contact with Cell phone quickens
pace despite Insomnia. No matter unexpected
Sleeping Beauties warrant kisses, my determination,
motivation, and slight trepidation occasionally breeds
(The Dark Half), doomsday facet heftily jackknifing lust.

Occasionally, a feeble goading simply under minds
any corporeal aim to restore endeavor to experience
Joyland. IT (creative juices within spur meeting Rose
Red and her restorative powers. Onward atheistic
soldier goes this chap. No matter tipping point (vis
a vis hungry fatigued body clamors for Needful Things.

Revival (for food and sleep) frequently appears grim.
Downcast state of body, mind and spirit reinforced
by mirage. The Dark Tower looms ahead! Adjacent
to ominous evil looking structure silhouette casted
of a Black House. The initial ambition to ward off
abysmal results summon forth creative literary juices.

Simultaneously a migraine headache pounding pitted LIX.
They hammer horrifically, ferociously, and diabolically.
Shades of shad rock Under The Dome. Ma noggin
aches like The Tommyknockers! Every attempt to locate
a royal crowning coeval counterpart jinxed with laborious
ill luck. Hell in a hand basket plight usually generates
nostalgia for destiny to Carrie be back to Ole Virginny.

Sage advice from Christine, Delores Claiborne, or The
Colorado Kid, yours truly blithely heeded. As a result
(The Outsider within this paperback writer wannabe)
sports defeat written all over face. Concomitant figurative
futility gussies and kickstarts leaving invisible pockmarks.

Ordinary Dreamcatcher fate invariably finds aptly named
Writer Errs Block. Need to back track arises (figuratively)
along vista. The roads have no name. They command
stubborn respect. Near impossible mission manifested
to transcend mental hindrance. This more difficult than
playing Gerald's Game. Hence sigh embrace The Shining

opportunity to avoid Misery. Doctor Sleep would undoubtedly
encourage braving, challenging self confronting The Eyes
Of The Dragon. Such a risky pursuit could force facing pitbull
Cujo. No matter gamble foisted prospect fraught frightfully
being burned at the stake by a Firestarter. Voluntary action

brings small hairs to tingle. Hunchback, sans severely curved
spine straightens. This (The Stand) ding pose offered supreme
vision as promised by The Talisman. Tidbits by me alias
Mr. Mercedes reddit carefully Just in case The Girl Who Loved
Tom Gordon chanced to stumble upon this redoubt versus
her hours spent staring at a blinking cursor. Metaphorical
po' wet ick feet took me where they would.

A sea of buttery happiness
Is home to the roundest of islets
Side by side they wallow.

Quite naturally, the islands,
Are covered in ham.
Ham? Ham!
And lazily perched
On the hams highest point
Sits an avian sphere
Perfectly poached.

Straining against its
White little straight jacket.
Pop.

you were once
a pig
a living,
breathing,
organism

but now
all you are
is a ham
a single slice
of processed deli meat

on your own,
not nearly enough
to ever
be *satisfied