This is the last word on the subject.
It’s my body. I can do what I want
as long as I hurt nobody.
You’re a nobody yet.
Rock dumb.
Well maybe better. Butter!
Bring on those carolers
Those oval faced warblers.
I should jump down their throats!
Squash them to humpty dumpsters.
To think we’re stuck on the same island!
Yes it’s my body vaingloriously put together
with a Superbowl ring on each finger,
earned by hard knocks and costly fumbles.
I tell you I leap for joy at the last 5 minutes
of the game between punchy lovers and poor losers.
Furthermore everything dies except the imagination.
Your body, the wind henceforth, and calling it concrete.
And isn’t it lovely knowing without a doubt
we go out of this winter wonderland like zombies:
things without dreams impatiently waiting for so-whats?
Be all you can’t be without grace for tomorrow.