on backwards day

the sun don’t shine,

the moonbeams stay

to beam moonlight,

the owls hoot

& roosters doze,

dessert replacing

Oat∙ee∙O’s

you work it out

while others play,

& show your cards

before the game,

you hit the hay

to go abroad,

then sally forth

from land of Nod.

You say good-bye

before hello–

yes, that’s the way

ass backwards go.

I went

down to the 5 & 10

bought myself some

ball-point pens

lined my eyes

& papered lids

practiced cursive

eyelashes…

thinking less

I thought-less, too

purchased Peeps

in aqua-blue

amended Hallmark

cards too sweet

appended chicken marks

with feet

moVing on

I counted change

Sparkletts flat

was still in range

re’versing whine

with Sharpie markers

I paid full-price

for swag in Parka.

My Easy Bake Oven

is kitsch∙an’ must have,

with light bulb so hot

and mixes pre-fab,

that cook cordon bleu

by just adding water,

to pre-measured powders

to make my cake hotter,

and top every muffin

~with treacly glaze~

no matter if dishes

must cook the whole day,

since space saving gadget

allows me the room–

> for elbows <

^ and breathing ^

and tables for two.

she was the wolf

that cried

“girl”,

the pumpkin lover

sure to beat the carriage home,

the napping blueblood who

rolled over

in lieu of kisses

–eschewing organic fruit for

GMO since she knew damn well

bigger was better, and

a sure cure for living with systemic pesticide

–the mutant green–

and ever

mindful of impending run on glass coffins,

she trip-trip-trapped

across bridges

–aflame behind her,

a burning pyre of pick-up Styx

that had gone up like a pile

of pick-up Styx

// just like that \\

Careless of gnomes, trolls  and ogres, all,

but mouse-fearful of pachyderms,

she embraced blackout conditions

(when available)

and employed catapult to sling Stones

. . .

on the down low

. . .

at a gun fight

. . .

at a proper fi-fie-foe fed fire,

all the while fermenting bad apples in

cider which

offed

the less hardy

(in cider = truth)

but not her royal ass-pain. . .

Valuing rest beyond

formula, she

was good to leave

secret rooms  locked,

–for heaven’s sake–

climbing 500

miles of stares

instead,

–God Bless America–

and presenting word jumbles

when it felt just rite

–presently–

to riddle you this.

She had a parting of the ways

with her houseplants

–a falling out.

it bore no re∙peat∙ing …

& she kicKed them to the curb

–succulents, first.

everyone secretly hates succulents,

and in that regard, she was no different from anyone else…

creepy lil’ shop o’ horrors plant

and not even attractive,

the plant for the:

I am too lame to have a houseplant plant-owner

the succulents went first.

Cacti followed,

miniature cacti that bloomed too rarely

those little pricks were needy!

Requiring an eyedropper of water every other year

without exception

her sheer & pure eco-consciousness

compelled that split

–cacti followed.

Finally spiders

every last frickin’ spider mommy, daddy and baby

of that proliferating plant

got the bum’s rush

her weariness of web-related associations

encompassing

cob

cable

and

creepers, all

and

–spiders were the last to go

. . .

Released to the wild, these plants were free!

. . .

Both deprived and granted rooTs,

it was their inability to ambulate that spelled disaster

since cities limit Trees.

I just said: bucket!

‘Shoveled that sand-of-a-beach

. . .

Dug a new castle.

The moon drips

skitter bugs,

on dusty beams

skating surf,

–sandaling bare feet

that climb Escher stairs

carved in castles

made of sand,

and built on rock.

Humid air without breath

conceals–

Human hands without

you

its sticky close duct tape

of overwhelm

progressive…

Untested stars

beckon

flicker and fade

with confounding

autonomous energy and

my skin

my skin!

grows too tight to bear.