"It was an icy day.
We buried the cat,
then took her box
and set fire to it
in the backyard.
Those fleas that escaped
earth and fire
died by the cold."

William C. Williams

He almost, does, write like a doctor.

All these pickled peppers spur,

sending waves of the scent of hate,

the scent of metallic paints on mornings wake.

I'm sniffing the fumes,

a bonafied stalemate,

a quiet trance I will not break.

Solitude is no jokers prank,

those that indulge it are the greatest laughs,

within themselves and their color coded butter knives,

themselves

themselves.

I'm fed up with everyone I know.

Is it a crime?

Creating red velvet cheesecake brownies.

Swirrlllssss.

My dog playing outside. Found my old pandora account...more swirls.