maybe today i will skip the edibles,
knock back my lunch,
and consume history’s breast milk
like it was gifted to me
from the mother’s teat of two twin-white,
wilting hanging-baskets
asleep
atop the hood of their mired hearse.
history is history.
forget her, and leave her the fuck alone.
i will never be allowed to love my words,
but
despite this bruised tongue
she’ll always
remind me of the bitter taste of an
unseen mouth.
pucker up bitch,
and kiss our mother goodnight.
sometimes twelve ounces are not enough
to
finish these damn words
that have already made history,
so circumstance
has decided this should be
the end of another half-ass poem that is
better left untitled.
H.L. Peterson (November 2009)
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Sigh. 
