probably of the worst variety,
my sun-ripened days,
ended with no cherries,
and i didn't hit the jackpot,
nor did i make it big.
nope,
i ended up squished into
labels of diced, strained, paste and puree
until the world made sauce out of me.
sauce, sass...what the hell's the difference?
at least now i have vacuum package metal
to encase my shelf life, just a bit longer
and i no longer freeze well,
but smell funny in the heat.
i mix okay with vodka,
but the shit tastes like water to me now,
so i avoid its pungency.
i write for the late night burger trips,
and those little moments,
when ashtrays become full
and the world feels but a hum,
that annoying ringing in the ears...
when i can smother cheddar over melted hopes,
and fatten the wallet of a starving mind.
i can borrow from myself,
the forgetfulness of sleeplessness,
and splurge my daring venture
into ketchup bottle's ditties,
and my Heinz 57 heritage
Silver trophy winner
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