Don’t Eat the Blowfish
Tastes like chicken but like everything else it’s not.
The liver is Nagasaki.
The lungs Hiroshima or Jesse James and
Dear Old Death comes to us all but
the quiver is fantastic.
Like lips full of bees.
Like a bucket of glue and no one but you.
Hey Toshi! It’s Number One on the Hit Parade!
Who cares that The Deal is about to go down the Crapper.
Or that we may have to eat the pets.
Elsewhere in the Kingdom it is dark but this is the Shit.
This is the Rush.
Like finding Jimmy Hoffa in the attic.
Like kicking Mother Theresa in the teeth.
Like fifty-fifty at best with tubes in the chest and second cousins eyeing the Will.
First Published by Milk and Cake Press: Dead of Winter Anthology