cake.

i'm making it and baking it.
i won't be in the weak waterbaby worstitude
of connecticut's suburban streets
to celebrate the big candle-blowin' berday business
of my sister anna's thirtieth being-alive anniversay.
so,
as a show of solidarity with my sibling,
i'm making myself a consolation prize cake.
yep.
flaunting a supreme disregard,
for flood and drought alike,
in the face of the worldwide wheat famine,
hunger-scare food-cost-spike frenzy,
i'm adding applesauce and sugar,
and gettin' all marie antoinette on my tastebuds.
let 'em eat it, y'all.
i'm sure gonna.
plus,
there's always the promise of frosting.
or icing, if you'd prefer.
heck,
you can call it thick chocloate goobieblops for all i care;
it's getting spread on my cakes regardless.
that's correct.
september cakes.
just what the weekend ordered.
hefty slices of amazing.
it's no indigenous andes, alpaca-haired, quinoa cake,
but it is surely destined to be more delicioso,
and probably mucho mas vegan.
i'm on it.
*
but more importantly (barely) than the cake in the oven,
my little sister is thirty.
my littlest sister.
thirty.
dang.
that makes me even older.
i feel it, too.
and man, do i look it.
labor day weekend,
and i'm headed to work,
after staying up too long for the last late showing of 'machete'.
my sad bones and sleepy skin can't handle this kind of thing.
brownsploitation and rest deprivation?
and more tattoos?
mutha-b!tches had better be bringing big heavy-weighted
molto movie checks with 'em today.
holler.(i'm ready to make dollars)
...and cake.
by the stack and by the slice.
both types.
***********
so,
the hurricane of biblical retribution and fury
failed to smite massachussets off the face of the earth.
that means it's still full of 'holes,
which in turn means a mass exodus
from the realms of b!tchbagging sucktardation,
to the idyllic woodsly goodness.
good for them,
bad for us.
what could've been a peaceful,
albeit soggy,
saturated span of sweet, sweet silent solitude,
is sure to be a sh!t-salad traffic jam jamboree doo-doo circle instead.
hard-styles don't get vacations, i guess.
more of this,
and more's the pity.
hot fire spit only condenses and concentrates
the baby b!tch-sap, neighbors.
it looks like the end o' the week will see the fruits of such interaction.
which is to say:
b!tch-syrup.
obviously.
thick, bitter, and unwanted.
that's what SHE said;
never quiet, never soft.....