Saturday 4/11/2009 01:28:00 AM

She stood there. Coaching the drama from bitten figners. The worst kind of vulture. One that doesn't wait for death. She drew the numbers on the chalkboard. A random science. Of lies. Vaguely associated with the truth.

She wore no watch, but always knew what time it was. By how many yeses she'd utttered. By how loudly they yelled when she didn't want to listen.

Eager drums. Are content to be beaten. Calm red riding hoods seduce the wolf. With sealed picnic baskets only a child can take through the woods.

No more grandmother. Just sharp teeth. And big eyes. The better to see us.

The fairy tale is strong. Selfish princes kiss all the girls. The mortar is weak. On my straw house.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.