it made about as much sense as
spreading
mayonnaise over cat-shit;
making
a toasted-cheese sandwich out of a word;
coaxing toads to
jump one-legged into a bowl of acorns;
asking Freshman to
fire microwave popcorn at
dead
gray-winged moths
sleeping on dusty windowsills
in the dormitory of Aurelius Hall
with slingshots
fastened only at one end,
but i did it anyway.
my right thumb
(numbly laboring across the key-pad)
typed quickly a
callous and hasty text-message that said:
“i need my book
(a worn copy of Love is a Dog From Hell)
back
… just put it in my mailbox.”
“need” was an almost distant
and strangely absurd word
for me to use,
because honestly it really wasn’t true.
i could lie and blame it on
this intelligent Spring day,
(April showers bring May flowers)
but the hell with that …
she is an amazing lay and
into
artlessly having sex with married men,
so on a whim,
frankly ~
i sent it to see if
she wanted to fuck tonight.
H.L. Peterson (January 2009)









See how we humans are? No wonder the Aliens gossip about us.


... its a lose lose situation really.






H.L., you made me ravenous. And thirsty.
Sheesh, Scribe.
these halls, my Friend. *holds up lighter*

*clink*
62 old applause
