I'm waiting for ASLE to post our lane assignments. I know I'll be presenting at five in the afternoon on the first day of the conference. Not great, but not bad. First day is good. Dinner time. . . not so good. I'm distracting myself with wacky poems. Like this one.
Sunday Is for Killing Demons
One of you is running for her life.
One of you is not happy.
In Camelot, Michigan, Claire’s parents
take leave of their senses and country.
Line the bookcase with hair.
Forget throat singing.
Open your moth.
The chrysalis treats you to mud.
The door opens onto a thick spring
filled with milk bottles filled with milk
from the full Jersey milch cow at the valley mouth.
Diamond rings covered by moss.
Personal means built into your left arm.
Seconal means never having to say.
Treasonous means a first date with Rod Stewart.
There are times when nothing means anything.
I know a good recipe for great carrots
diced into spice and exquisite.
Realize anything yet?
Got anything left to lose?
Open your month.
Both of you require more wires.
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