happybirthdayjanaeA Poem by h d e rushin
The icing on my daughters cake is a mischling of the first degree and there is no safe place to run, no bunker to hide in waiting for the break in the blitzkrieg. Only to face her brown eyes, the same ones her grandfather had, and tell her that going to the bakery on a corner with no stree lights is a request for reclassification/ And no, i'm not being too overly sentimental about a sweet rectangle that a person who could hardly speak english, wrote your name on, in cursive no doubt, where the pink, lard letters appeared as one complex stroke. And I scrambled to find a meaning for 12 candles other than that bullshit of the manifestation of the Trinity to the four corners of the horizon. Or the twelve works of Hercules, the sixth being the killing of the Stymphalian birds, where he used those forged castenets to drive them from the trees, just like the aligator head noisemakers I bought for her at circus soleil. Yeah, the ones she clicked and clicked and clicked for two hours in the car on our drive home, that disturbed me so badly, I wished outloud to be eaten alive by those same man eating birds... © 2013 h d e rushin |
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Added on July 5, 2013 Last Updated on July 5, 2013 Author
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