I always forget your birthday
Because I never want to think
About good things having
A beginning or ending
How’s that for a flakey excuse?
In the distance I hear metal
Ladders being extended
And contracted,
Like shot guns cocking
The sky is so blue
From this side of the building.
Laundry drying on the line
I want to squeeze this day with both hands
Two headed Jesus on the wall
Covering all the bases
The lizard king is taking a day off
Work on his chip shot at the range
We return to Mamoun’s Falafel
Like a beacon in the night
I always us a little too much hot sauce
I try to cool my burning lips
With sweet mint lemonade
We step into a sea of
red clothing and young adult drinking
Behold the great petrea dish
Testing the legs of the birthing table
Mixing the batter
Equations that lead to formulas
Social lives live and die here
But tonight we live
Schwervon! 