Roadkill for Dinner Cheryl Wolfe

I want to fly a kite. Listen to the Velvet Underground. A ferocious dragon-head breathing Wild: Lou Reed spiked-out at Max's Kansas City, red-no, black,-no, red, Red. red tables and glam waitresses Haunting emerald eyes that make kids shriek waitresses handling flashing red nails screeches like it was a Halloween mask, like claws, vicious and deadly circle-shaped and cunning as a serpent. Please attack now! I turn around, looking I see it swoop and scout, deep into the smoke and noise, riding on the wind like a hawk. where a couple isfucking. Jade and black talons pierce the air A man in drag slowly injects a needle into his vein, ready to jab its prey. Hawks pose releasing heroin to hit his system. Hollyfrom uglier than roadkill. Miami, Fla and Tinkerbell wait for the man, "Roadkill for dinner" joked my old bus driver, stiff as statues with sweaty faces and bleeding eyeliner, hawk-eyed whenever the bus passed a flattened rabbit, focused on getting the sweet jane, rolled-eyes look. tufts of white fur framing the corpse. A trampy waitress steps over to dig her nails into my chest, Once, lucky, I saw its foot had been hacked off, licks my ear, and we go for the bang. so dried sinews spread out like red strings, Red-eyed Lou grabs his guitar and bursts into the mike pulp strands which the murderer copies exactly, the angry growl intro of "Pale Blue Eyes." engrossed, working to "Pale Blue Eyes."

Cheryl Wolfe Writing A Poem On A Wednesday

Is no different than singing a song on a Tuesday. Since I gave up church for Lent I've had more time to bite a chunk From a hot apple, chew it to sauce, and send it down as juice, enjoy it for once instead of just eating it for my health.

I've had more time to create meaningless quotes and place them at the doorstep of politicians, Written on recycled paper, folded, and stapled three times. Like this one: Masturbation and procreation, excessive habits of a fucked up nation. It rhymes all over the place, makes you think there's more to it, but like I said it's meaningless. If you still insist that it has some deeper meaning, then your brain has been awake too long.

By Easter I hope to have an answer to every Mother's question, a rhyme for every dying poet, and a reason for every warm winter. I might even concoct some astounding alliteration with those explanations while I relax underneath a tree. But if that tree starts arguing with me about personification, then that's it, I'm through with poetry!

Nathan Pyle