12-12-12.

twelve, twelve, twelve,
and thirty-flippin' six, neighbors.
yuuuuuuuuuuup.
three dozens of dopeness,
from the date down to the magic blops of hopped-up
baked-off hottness for your face!
today is the day.
just like every day,
which is to say the only day, and the worst day,
but that's not all, y'all, now is it?
no way.
today's a day so rad, it reps a triple-twelve style.
and as far as that sort of thing ghoes, this is it, duders.
there's no thirteenth month,
so 13-13-13 is a no go, y'know?
what does that mean for the next hundred years?
yep. that's right-
threesomes of same-number jauns are off the menu.
awwwwwwww.
but you hungry ghosts know what's ON the menu right?
no?
then you'd better check the F*ing teleport:

yeah!
superfancy, over-complicated, unnecessary ingredient substitutions?
like an expert active participatory kitchen commando, yo.
but what are they?
they're dope...duh.
okay.
but what kind of dope are they?

they're pure XI-mas magic treats-
cinnamon-ginger-soynog-brown sugar cuppiecakes,
with sweetened chocolate betterthanbuttercreme cinnamon-maple soynog frosting.
every chance i had to freak it off?
heck yes, friends...
i took it,
with a little bitty bit of swapping out
the ordinary for the extraordinary, or at least the strangelovely bits of
unconventional bakery barbarianism.
i doo-doo that kind of freaky-diki miki-fiki mayhem in my mixing bowl.
three dozen cups of cake, on a day made out of three dozens,
because i like that fresh numberwang activation, ninjas.
************
it's wotan's day, duders.
wednesday.
and it's the transition into new moon darker-than-ever time tonight, too.
technically it's tomorrow morning,
but 3 a.m. isn't invited to anywhere but this overnight.
the usual batch of sh!t-salad maintains it's martial law-type presence,
and my holiday heart and warrior wallet are marshaling presents in piles for miles.
i looooove XI-mas, kids.
that's the truth.
as a matter of fact, holidays in general are on my list.
and that's saying something.
i love a good reason to commemorate and/or celebrate.
like dark, cold, brutal, bitter nights without any light in the sky,
and a string of repetitive numbers on a calendar page,
calling out in concentric echoes, like a microphone check-
1-2-1-2-1-2....
real life.
it's all there ever is,
and there's more every day,
but there's never ever enough, now is there?
cupped-up cakes and empty F*ing lives-
today and everyday;
never quiet, never soft.....