Ignore the sun’s slander:
as much as there is in the golden retriever,
there is strawberry syrup in the heart o’ the salamander.
Black is the color o’ cola & chocolate,
& I can feel the moon’s flour crumble in my fingertips,
can feel the soggy brown leaves hug my feet
as they pass poems by Hershy, Sunkist, & Tim’s scattered through the street.
Like ancient Greek plays,
torrents quench nerves dried sick by sunburns;
& there’s peace in the chaos o’ carpet floors
scattered with papers, wires, & shirts.
For what is beauty but that which we accept?
Thus, if we accept ugliness, misery, & death…
No.
They don’t.
I take it all back:
all o’ the muddy foot tracks,
all o’ the red marks left by tacks,
all o’ the limbs blown onto my yard,
all o’ the cheap rom hacks o’ Mario Kart.
There’s only room for either day or night,
& the moon’s not full ‘nough to finish that fight;
so we must all be subjected to the light
—the lactose intolerant to be sacrificed.
