thor's hammering.

mjolnir, kids.
the enchanted bash'em up smasher of thor.
i think it may be hidden behind my eyes.
if it's not,
then i'm at a loss to explain the smiting
sledge-slamming scrapyard slaps of this headache.
me and the kids have all got colds.
during vacation.
what a rip-off.
i'm sayin',
i got that connecticitis.
i only seem to ever get sick when i go to connecticut,
or when connecticut cats come up here.
...the woodsly goodness would never commit
an affront like that to my immune system...
the conditions have been met,
and therefore i'm hacking away.
and not with a berserker viking axe, either.
lungs make for sh!tty chopping tools, y'know?
and ya'll thought i was playin';
nope.
the nutmeg doo-doo butter,
in actuality,
literally,
makes me sick.
i'm not trying to sound snotty,
(although the drippy faucet on my face
may make it seem otherwise)
but that's just what is.
if germs were money,
i'd be filthy stinking rich right now.
will i be spreading the wealth?
oh, yeah-
sneezy, wheezy spattering,
directly into the exposed skin of my clients.
epidemic action,
through the epidermis, an' that.
sorry,
new hampshire,
but infectious out-of-state awfulness
isn't just limited to restaurants and traffic.
there's no rest in my future, duders.
i've got cookin', tattooing, reading, shopping,
and all kinds of fatherly fun to get going on with.
that means that i'm contaminating
whole swaths of mountainside with this 'itis.
***********
it's thursday.
thor's day.
so the hammering hellstorm in my skull
probably won't abate anytime soon.
that's good news.
a deafening thunderstorm of thoughts,
a hollering hurricane of blacksmith beating,
a drumbeat battle-hym in my head, even,
may be just what i need to take this day all the way;
to eleven,
and back again.
that's a righteous round-trip ragnarok.
i'll pick up were i leave off-
battle-beast bardic bellipotence and all-
true stories, told truly.
that's the way it works.
get it?
Folk Life woodsly strikeforce lightning.
that's what's on the menu today.
if i've gotta be sick,
i'm gonna be the sickest.
y'know,
all wicked sick,
as in: doooooooope.
translated from the bostonian version of english.
boogers, lungs full of choking pudding,
coughing up coffee-colored cream,
and feverish.
don't forget the feverish frenzy, folks.
that's hottness trying to burn up the bad parts.
purification by fire.
on the inside.
there's a pulse-pounding, hard-pounding power,
i'm surprised it can't be heard by ya'll when i open my mouth.
loud.
hard.
and definitely happening;
never quiet, never soft.....