'Sweet Burn' or 'Ode to Mr. Jerry Tomato (slightly bruised)'

Girl come! Come into the darkness…Draw the curtains on my calm Korean morning as the dew beads on my upper lip, too. We’ll steal ourselves from the shining, oven light of the sun. I see the sweat stand out on your soft skin as I fall from high heaven, naked and wailing, only knowing you’ll leave here and I’ll be holding my dead-beating heart in my outstretched hands. The contempt brews just beneath the surface slurry. Your gaze eats my mind as it sputters in the shallows, trolling for an excuse; fishing for the reasons. Why do we pretend to defend the sanctimony of our empty promises, the olden, golden, glory-gone, leaves gathering out in the garden? Our version of the fall of…

Man, I despise that man-thing, that bumbling beast; the interloper who hobbled in from the flatlands in the East with a smiling sneer and the glossy veneer of a snake semen salesman seeking a rosy rube to spill syrupy, kind words into a leaking vessel. Tears strewn throughout the home from one cherubic, naïve, the mother of us all. The tales she tells, true fiction, ever seeking, solace and redemption in the aisles and alleyways of her heart. Or so I see…

Slowly and sleepily, Stuttgart dreams call, peevishly, pandering, and pensive, the salesman pounces, panda-like, reeking of fermented, phony bamboo, on his prey. With the prospects of no gal, no beautiful babes, and no home, the mouse in this man is left tattered and torn from the ever-brewing, bawling battles. A white flag covers his shame. Pencil on paper soothes my pride. Rock crushes scissors. It’s a losing game. A bitter bet…better yet for all of me to all of thee that I have nothing else left to write; even less to say.