If Only the Popcorns Brewed More Smoothly Under Sunnage

Too slowly
runneth all speaking
for me:--into thy
chariot, O storm, do I
leap!
And even thee
will I whip
with my spite!
Spake Nietzsche
with a grimace and
a grip on wandwood
of essence.

Asparagonzola was
thrice, twice
the age of that
nitwit when she
opened the doors
of virtue and
despoiled her own bit
of essence.

But that was then, and this is
steak. You must keep off
the grass in these times
if you wish to idolize another's
marbles and volleys of,
"Oh, say nothing," and "Don't you wish."

If only the breathing tides,
could wrap you up,
and choke your breath
away from your neck and
head and lungs,
would I then smile
and rub my meaty hands together
in triumph.
They are worn hands, tired of living,
and calloused with wounds from my enemies
and pounds added to the heads of enemy hosts.
The hands smell of old nectar at this moment,
old nectar and the goose pectin from yesteryear.

Don't open that cake,
lest Ted Bundy will exercise
freely in your face.