Wednesday, April 9, 2014


No set form tonight.  This is a poem about cake, sort of.


Nerves stretched tight, jangling and pounding
like the wires on John Cage's piano
Pressure in the skull like her brain
has finally decided to make a break for it
Eyes bloodshot, small and irritated
framed by blurred mascara

She is weaving and careening towards the bathroom
focus fixed on kamikazing this wretched long day
and catches a mirrored glimpse of herself,

a dark splotch of chocolate frosting on her forehead
from where she'd taken down a piece of
gluten-free seven layer cake
like a hitman

And laughs.

It's going to be ok.

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