, , ,

when the snakes in the

olives take a bite out of the

pit.  To where will you surrender?  if

thee were a pepper in the

hands of a mouse, would

you fly to the moon with

fire in your mouth.  Save the

sound that was once your song,

bake the bread that was lit

with bongs,

tread your tears until they’ve

tasted strong.  How was I supposed to

feel when there

wasn’t any martini left in hell?