-
For every story of addiction
has trauma at the root
-

(a lighter piece sup *** wit tree)

'm, oh yes mud hum,
     who hoop fully iz zaftig
and/or mister
     Jack Rabbit, whoever wig
gulls or crinkles their nose
     creating a lil whirligig
at this bit of flummery unrig
yule lated impossible

     to make cogent
     and/or tangential with trig
perhaps best red
     after taking a swig
of vintage carrot juice with a sprig
of favorite herb, more'n enough
     to slake thirsting herd
     at the yearly

     Peter Rabbit shindig,
which senseless literary rig
ma roll even Bugs Bunny
     trump petting donned Taj Mahal
     swiftly tailored hare
     reed styled periwig,

     (would turnip his nose),
     button size or overbig,
yet all Joe King aside,
     and please do not think me a ****
excepting (Trix are for kids, eh...?)

this intentional faux paw, an
distress signal tis ideally geared
     for a Unitarian
     herbalist hook can
transform this pro
     fessed human imposter,
     (who in truth got cursed
     as a **** sapien

     by Bunny Foo Foo with elan)
particularly in the guise of Han
nub bull the cannibal,
     (whose unisexual name Jan)
also doubles up

     as my birth month
     dwells in Lan
zing, Michigan, and earns
     keeps employed as a nan

knee, yet experiences inner pan
dumb moan he yum,
     (seized with grippe to dig
     in Farmer Brown's garden), and ran
like the dickens
     all the way to Tran
sill vane ya leaping
     across Atlantic Ocean forced
     to adopt the lifestyle of a Van
dull with razor sharp buck teeth.

Dissect yourself. Get down to the root
of what your demons use as their
sustenance, and cut
it out.

When their eyes met

Her heart flutter, He for She
His mind sensed, She for He

Anklet of your feet or its my  mondegreen?
ringing cham cham cham jingling -
does I have to pay the cost?
Your night bird song, or my belief is unreal?
New in my stomach hemlock root is growing
I love again, the fig flower you were showing.