by Tomorrow's Man
Honestly?
Especially now,
after making a bit of a name for myself,
I'm a bit tired of being shitted out like a pit of the midwest.
As they say in Thailand,
"Phuket."
Conversation today:
To me: "Your smile looks like the sound of a rattlesnake."
From me: "Is that at all good?"
To me: "It is if you like rattles."
There's a new kind of grey that stultifies a bit of the blood before the coffee can decrystallize a Monday morning; this grey is the smell of snow in October, the taste of lake ice, and moans with the bleat of a foghorn still cold under 23 layers of blankets.
Winter, Monday, October, Wisconsin, here come the bloodknives again.
Box
Tear off the wrapper.
Open the box.
In it is a polaroid of Santa.
Santa, he's having sex, with a very attractive lady.
Santa, he's standing up;
The lady, she's knocked over the milk, but not the cookies.
The lady, she's Pandora.
Santa's got a thought balloon.
Pandora's got a thought balloon.
Over their heads.
They're both thinking, more or less, the same thing.
What are they thinking?