Night tastes like chocolate pudding.
Spoon after spoon, I swallow.
The aroma burns my eyes
like Tito burned my heart
one cold winter back in Michigan.
Flavorless, long nights pile up, uneaten,
while morning waits, untouched,
and PopTarts dream of warmth.
A caballo dado no se le mira el colmillo.
The keen flashlight of understanding
doesn't run without batteries--
Santa took those along with the milk.
Hush now. Don't tell Agnes.
Her future holds enough sad stories.
Green, the stars scream of madness,
while fairy godmothers lie under our beds
awaiting orders to give needed infusions.
Giggling, sharp needles dance in old hands.
Too bad the dish ran away with the spoon.
16 hours ago