I placed a well woven blanket on the edge of a window sill.

It was well made and warm.

I stormed apart because impactful starts had shorted out holy night.

I shared a napsnack of overdigested hellholes branded in fire patches.


It's ok.

I'm left forgviving hell in firepatches made of dust and stool.

Why I ranted past, and next to needs, that's the reason

I made so many abrupt ideas into how I feel.

I know I did it all night.

I know.

I'm alright.

This blows.

It's can be just right if you promise to pay attention
to very little, and let my buy time to be a regular part of life.

Baking egg whites in my oven

was a sort of ashy quiche.

Making my laundry stay white is often

missing the beast of the moment.

Lowing out offers and staking a bill in statements made for really
bad, bad memories.

So, let's see what else can be made out of rotten, token failings.

Never, it's an assailing makeshift shower show.

Blowing in orange air, blessed with care and kinder coffers.

See what lot make little out of over laundered linens,

baked in waxed winnings and pinned under our armpits.

Lit with gas and kerosene and left leaning on our most flammable bit of prized literature.

I bought a bundle of clotted cream out of the clearance basket
located all the way in the back of my local grocery store.

I muddled a bit of leftover herbs in a mortar,
making it into a poultice sort of good I rub on all my sores.

The more I make fire,
the more ash I'm left with.

I poured salted water on the fires,
steam showed up in the air.

More minerals caked on rocks.
Pock marks of sour crusty cake.

Four years of dry seasons
left layers of life loving salt in a dead lake.

I'm cracking,
Breaking eggs out on the salt flats.
Making flavor out of rocks.

I clocked in on my personal best this morning.

Waking up sore, I poured my heart out on a diner waffle.

My waffle seized up.

A victim of sugar shock.

I soaked it syrup and butter,

then I gorged until my heart stopped.

Baby magpie birdies
Cluck early in the morning

Coyotes have breakfast
on all the worms and birds.

Trout gather nymphs in slurping slurring.

but the longest live terrapin remains inert.

Stuffing brittle remnants of dead little bits,
crammed in a stovepipe shaft
had lighted and lit up a huge fireball
over all of my peers and enemies.

It wasn't hard to see at all,
unless you liked living under a rock like me.

It was the sort of thing you regret never having saw,
and the sort of thing, if you were you
you would never see.