Autumnby The Little Witch

Summer is in the back of her throat, wrapped in a delicate wax paper mache of tropic banana leaves. 

The clouds in the sky above her look like puffy coat lapels, or like pubescent pouts post the negative vacuum of a shot glass per the Kylie Jenner lip challenge.

All around, the leaves craft aeolian chrysalises; you can taste the pre-gold fulvid beer, and the sumptuous boudin noir in their pigments.

Leaves of Uruguayan blood pudding lie crisp in the grass; next to them, icy orange peels with sugar rinds that are buttoned down with tumeric candied dates. Rich head cheese jellies and prairie oysters paint colors of carné on ash blonde lawns.

Autumnby paints gold dust on underbrush flanking the dirt path through the woods. Her chocolate brown afro curls turn a cool blue in the dusk. 

She is swathed in an oversized white plush cowl, her bluish curls making a halo around her mahogany face. 

Her magic swirls around her; fall time fortunes fill an ivory tusk cornucopia with the pollen of golden wish dust: crabapples, hard cider, maize moonshine, fermented berries and buttery gourds tumble from her lips into the fog.

Autumnby hangs wishes from the coat hooks of peeling tree bark, from the lose threads in dew studded spider webs, and from the figgy purplish-sables of rotting rose thistles.

Have you seen this little witch granting wishes in your neck of the woods today?

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A Poem For Thursday

Stardust sluices off
the hunched shoulders of
a leprechaun’s virga rainbow;

Melting primary
and tertiary colors twist
together in a tengo of
mythic, neon psychedelia.

Rainbow Brite’s pot of gold
is filled with chocolate coins.

On Surviving The End…

A little boy (ahem, monster) with a crimped, golden-brown afro stands at the commode. Everything is going according to plan.

His pants are down. Check. His pee is in the toilet. Check. Tiny cream colored hands are reaching into the toilet to play in pee-pee water. Check. Wait!

“Noooooooooooooerrahh! Camden! Don’t do that!”

Camden turns his lash-rimmed baby browns on me to say, “You scared me.” Aw. Of course, I’m sorry for yodeling at him like a hoodlum, but–Tiny hands. In toilet. Almost.

Twenty of his hobbit-like friends have used the same toilet (with bad aim I might add). The toilet’s ablutionary appeal is lost on me.

I guess he was mesmerized by the flushing toilet’s hypnotic whirlpool. I guess I overreacted (you: pushaw, like, yeah. He’s two. Me: okay, but it’s still a toilet. Like, have you seen what goes in it? You: *silence that indicates the reply, “duh.”*)

After all, toilets can be pretty cool–and filthy. It all boils down to this: everything is clean when you’re two, and the toilet water is clear (or maybe a trifle yellow).