6% Sales Tax Week

The day’s centered ‘round

the noblest ideal,

that starts at late mass

upon midnight clear…

When sleepy-eyed families

hit church to redress—

a year of wrongdoing

in 2 hours or less,

(a hella good deal)

for losing some rest.

This doesn’t account for—

the late Christmas shopper,

who’s still at the mall

becoming a pauper,

trading his dough

for overpriced stuff,

in hopes to avoid

the pending rebuff,

the gifts meant to show,

he’s thoughtful enough.

Since praise without largess

is simply suspicious,

for all that the day

is seen as auspicious,

a message that’s louder

than thanks or good wishes,

a custom we trust in

as being propitious,

a presenting penance

to remit the pernicious.

The Walmarts,

—and K-Marts—

and Marts of all kind,

are the real alters here

with one thing in mind—

their margin increases

with each sale tallied,

—not Jesus–

He’s specious—

and lives in Death Valley.

Happy Holly-DaZe, blOg-O-pEEps!! Thank you for coming by now and again. If you missed the start of this 7-verse sequence, you can get up to date by clicking the links below. Hope you are feeling fat & sassy & oh-so-chill during this much-deserved break from the salt mines.

First Week

Second Week

Week 3

4th Down

5th Golden Week

Also, this was originally published by the Book Smuggler’s Den, and you can link to that great site–and other inViting reads–here:  Book Smuggler’s Den

hashtag

tic

tac

toe

player one: hearts

play’ah, too: crossbones

started

all in

(good fun)

sadly

(cruelly, too)

heart’s lost

and the

eXcess poison

seeped.

Marked every spot

heart once occupied

in toxic mimicry

Killing factor

ticked

. . .

Repeal

tacked

< < <

Tagged

toes

unable

to X

its

game.

Pulling adult hood

around baby face,

I remember velvet

teen years,

when I knew heh-v’ry-thing

and life was plush

–totting up triumphs–

and sowing oats instead of

sewing button eyes

back on

and carin’ was only

kidding around…

©Carin’ Robiscoe

don’t meet your heroes,

if heroes are ghosts,

you’ll find they are shy

of the traits you like most,

to start with these

charl’tans

don’t even have hosts–

no heart,

and

no parts,

and

no spark

to their glow…

No shadowed reflection,

No pose for the lens,

No dewy complexion,

No, ghosts aren’t good friends

–just shades

that can blind you,

remind you the end

of time

on this side

of daisy and stem. . .

Besides which

they’ll vex you,

and hex you,

→their game→

to annex

your soul,

since ghosts need a frame,

a post in this world

–and the next–

is their aim,

a dummy

for mummy

on this astral plane.

so next time

a mem’ry

makes your eyes

~glisten~

be on alert &

make your ears

>listen<

for demonic tones

dogging the

~frisson~

that’s tingling your bones

practice resistance

Since heroes

ephemeral

aren’t heroes in pall

and

ghosts are for busting,

–not trusting–

at all.

death is quiet.

too quiet

–commotion stalls

* pfft *

it’s over–

embalming timer’s

begun!

Volatile Tupperware

burping a stay-fresh lie

when even a shotgun bang

isn’t loud enough to seal it in…

a Marching Band,

(since you have to get a move on)

stadium stamp,

and blimp with logo:

“The world is over!”

stenciled on it

air raid sirens, emergency interrupt,

24-hour news coverage,

wouldn’t do it

…unless anchormen cried…

my best advice?

don’t look over your left shoulder in cemeteries

(for a comfortable place)

the only real magic

left

is pillaring into salt and

there might be less grass, this time,

mausoleum or marker, too,

and owls no longer asking:

who.

she was

. . .

agro’cultured.

All about enemy

turf

and bad with geography–

she was

. . .

spit-polished.

Pinkie extended

after Bronx raspberry,

she seemed

. . .

refined.

Like high fructose

corn syrup

–cloying–

but

addictive.