Rrrrrrrabbit, Rrrrrrrabbit.

yuuuuuuuuuuuuup,
neighbors,
for the very last time this year,
and if those long-extinct, defunct, and discontinued mayans knew anything,
maybe the very last time forever and ever and never,
i crept out of my cold, empty bed;
a creature of habit and happenstance as much as superstition;
and as i opened my eyes, crossed my fingers and my heart,
and parted my thin, chapped lips.
y'know what happened next?
yeah!
i whispered out a semi-secret word or two.

uh-huh.
bed-head and all, y'all.
bursting past my ample teeth,
a supersonic syllabic lava-laced hot-fire-spat spate of sounds
specifically pronounced as a stand-alone sentence fragment of
heat-treated entreaty to the fickle and unforgiving secret universal plan
for a sliver of good luck, brighter fortunes, and positive half-full wholeheartedness.
...or at the very least a moritorium on the status quo of these previous 11 months.
because par for this course is a sloshing steamy bowl of sh!t-salad,
with the handles on the inside.
wordimus prime, duders.
i said the magically delicious abracadabralated rolling rrrrR's and bouncing bB's,
and made a percussive point of snapping those T's like taught drumheads, too.
enunciating with maliciously intense intentions to formulate laryngeal resonance
to ripple outwards and reverberate through the overlapping concentric circles
of spirit and memory.
jeeez.
all that, just to let you ninjas know that i said the same thing, just like always.
just like right now, just like next month,
just as justly and judiciously prudent to hedge my bets on wonderland holes and
woodsly goodsly dynamic active participation.
ummm, you'd better believe it-
rabbit. rabbit.
double-barrels of hippity, hoppity, cottontailed, flopsy mopsy, br'er type jauns.
that's what's up.
the first of the mutha-flippin' month is here again already.
the last month of the worst year so far.
it's all almost all over,
and it's also only just begun.
dang.
***********
it's a potentially stormy saturday in the mountainous reaches of new hampshire.
just what we need, ninjas-
a blanket of white shite to bombastically lambaste the poetic perches
of we, these wee worthy warriors of really real rural urbanism.
and that'd also be proof that i'm doing something wrong,
or that i'm saying my special miniature mantra through parsed participles
and inappropriately pursed lips over perilously pearly enameled choppers.
let it snow.
i mean,
then at least the bleak gray gaytardation of a leafless high-ceilinged open-plan skyline
along the mangy ranges of the presidential peaks will get a topcoat
of stainless pristine powder to make it look nice for a bit.
then again,
ugly is dope,
and beauty melts to mud eventually.
happy mutha-b!tching december, kids.
there's going to be even more of this,
as usual;
never quiet, never soft.....