A Bike's A Bike In Summer

	it rhymes, so it must be poetry.
	Dearest M. You ask of winter mornings, here, and I don't know what to say. Arent' mornings in the winter, everywhere, the same damn shade of grey? It rains on things it shouldn't. I break things with my words. The coffee's never strong enough. The frost has killed the birds. You ask of winter mornings, here, and I would have to say, It's afternoons in summer, here, that make curses go away. A bike's a bike, in summer. A song's a song, and lazy. The kitchen isn't filled with smoke. There are less people to be crazy. I'll get through winter mornings, here, and then through summer, too. I'll get through all the seasons, M., though, how, I've not a clue. Love, M.

Alas, The Madonna Does Not Function

You un~leashed the dogs of Hell, on me.

I know these dogs.
They have been housed, there, in the same exact kennel,
the same exact, bloody, rusty cages, behind mannequins,
and sale banners.
It's the same exact street, in the same old neighborhood,
and, the same old grey man,
with his tightly corseted secrets, his strange,
round spectacles, and pony tail,
who sweeps the curling leaves and dead things,
from around his little world.
The Prince of Darkness owned the same animals,
many years ago.

In the end, they ate him.
Devoured him, tearing limb from limb,
peeling all his meat away, leaving it,
for me to find.
We sat, you and I,
and, I told you this.

When, I was prepared to tell you
that I could no longer be beside you.
Not because the beasts had gotten loose,
but, because,
I needed to know that you would keep me safe,
from them.
I needed to know that I wouldn't be taken by surprise,
by these same wretched, brutal, curs, again.

Don't think that because you don't feed them,
they won't come panting back.
They have had the taste of blood,
and, they will try to get beneath your skin.

You asked,
what can I do, except to say that I am sorry?

Shoot the dogs.
They're sick, and, they won't stop.
They want the rubber ball to stay inside their mouth,
not for fetching.
They like it as a gag.
But it keeps you quiet, not them.
It makes it you, that keeps on running.
And, they will call you, at their whim.
I don't think you heard me,
when I asked...
one thing.
Shoot the dogs.