You Break It Into Pieces

You don't eat the whole thing at once.
It takes all day.
You break it into pieces.
You put the pieces in there, you eat it out of there.
He was talking about the red tin.

All this time of cold winter and I finally realized the heating vent to my bedroom was closed.

I smell essential oils in my hair as I write a rational email to a rational atheist who writes rational protestations to a non-political group. I wonder what his purpose is. All things logical usually have a purpose.

I have a rubber band in my stomach. It makes me nervous when it stretches or if it gets twisted up. The rubber band is calling for gummy bears.
Gummy bears and good leadership would be nice.
My astrology says that I am a leader by birth. Give me a shower curtain and some paint and I can turn any place into an art studio.
The rest is up to you.
I light candles tonight, heated by the new vent, scared of the rain outside.
Daydreaming of night dreams, the modem blinks at me to flirt, I think.
Tires wash by on the street and it sounds like the plastic bags in the closet, whether you are taking one or putting one in, the swoosh is nearly the same.

Gummy bears are not a good dinner and neither is what's in the red tin.
Do not feel bad for me.
Thanksgiving leftovers are the best.
I just like saying gummy bear.
And also Koala bear.

I know a few things about raccoons. I have a special friend who can morph into a raccoon on my porch.
I also know a few things about tarantulas. I have a scarf made of tarantulas. I wear it while I watch Gossip Girl.

For some reason my insanity is not coming out on the page as easily as it normally does in a poem.
There are some who may beg to differ.
For the cult following, I will say that the weekend was MADE of poetry.
The essence of the five-days cannot spill itself onto the pixels as it was organic and very much three dimensional.
Enough bleeding heart sentimentalism.

For today is a day of all magic and tomorrow will be even better.