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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

Free Guns. Amen. Free Will. No Go. Road Kill. Road Show. Play Fast. And Loose. Get Cooked. By Your Goose. Get Goosed. By The Cook. Sucker Punch. Captain Hook. There Are Gods. In The Sky. Captain Crunc

Rural Route Three. Billboards. Debris. This is God’s Green Earth Where Hope applied And got denied. Where teenage brides Watch children ride Hand me down bikes in Hand me down clothes. Heads down ridi

Like A Loaded Nun. Hot Like Your Cinnabon. Hot. Like The Midnight Heat. Hot. Like A Piece Of Meat. There Are Chances. That We Take. Cheap Romances. That We Fake. There Are Moments. That Are Real. Mome

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