cake.

hey there, folks.
i made myself a berfday cake,
or maybe an anniversary cake,
or maybe an 'it's-not-raining' cake,
or maybe just a bloated grandiose display
of unnecessary fancy-pants indulgence cake.
i'm not sure it wasn't all of those things.
i am sure it was delicious.
and heavy.
and big.
and time consuming.
and sugary-sweet like a cavity creep.
the process was more important than the product.
for serious.
the path was the goal,
and simultaneously that path was the gaol.
yuuup.
i've been kind of trapped in a series
of synchronized absences which require
a whole bunch of baking to activate.
procedural problem solving is my jam, y'all.
baking, a step-by-step-type
plan your work, work your plan-style batch of business,
a logical chain of events,
is how i get busy stimulating my brainwaves to battle
against the doo-doo buttery bad parts of full moons and empty beds.
awwwwwwwwwwwwww.
but enough about all that.
it's time to fill our bellies with empty calories!
neighbors,
from me to you,
from the woodsly goodness to your house,
via the future,
check the F*ing teleport:

c'mon.
triple layers, b!tch.
recognize that even at my low points,
i go to eleven.
a layer of secret self-invented recipe cake,
a layer of chocolate raspberry ganache,
a layer of brownie in circular cake shape,
another 'nother layer of choco-raz ganache,
and a top slab of cake.
oh, yeah,
and strawberry-chocolate frosting over all of that.
it has so much mass, the bottom layer is getting crushed
by the dense-bombery of that brick-sh!thouse brownie.
it's a three-story true story of spirit and memories.
for everybody and everything that keeps it real
and really happens.
stacked instead of overlapped,
but circles of similar-size all the same,
it's a light and dark and light again metaphor.
or maybe just a bellyache waiting to happen.
i'm not afraid to celebrate in absentia.
i do my dirt all by my lonely, homie.
***********
over and over,
it's over,
and over again.
and again.
it's not just cake i'm a glutton for, i guess.
y'know?
amassing masochism by the slice,
makes for a looooong decade, duders.
the truth?
you never go out on top.
and it usually ends with a whisper,
not a bang.
the sweet nothings of nothing?
F* off.
the tantalizing promise of new beginnings can kiss off,
and luckily,
i'm still puckered right up from a faceful of bitter ends;
never quiet, never soft.....