no, you may NOT.

may's done, duders.
somehow,
we've witnessed five furious, spurious months
burn through the pages of the calendar,
and fall right the F* off of the face of the world.
jeez.
time slips away like a burglar when you're not paying attention.
sneak-thievery or brazen-smash-and-grabbery;
it makes no nevermind, neighbors-
it's still the end of the very merry month of may.
and sad we surely are to see it go, huh?
right.
another 'nother one flops over, withers away,
and finally shrugs off the spanned times and spirits.
bye bye may.
what?
you don't really want to know, do you?
you DO?
okay.
last night i may have doubled down on more dumplings.
alright,
i totally powered through a pile of twenty two of those devious
little flour-powered fun-filled pan-fried demonic treats.
yeah.
little lucky charms for my face.
i went to eleven.
...twice.
check the deja-voodoo-doo teleport:

yuuuuuuuuup.
i present 'em up nice,
even though it just fuels my eternal resentment at dining alone.
of course,
after the big sexy plate of normal-sized portions and elegance and sh!t,
i just trough-hog my way through a big ol' bucket of the tasty little bastards.
nurture is nice, ninjas, but nature wins.
believe it.
this is what happens, kids, when i'm left alone-
i start out nice, but the sugar and spice run out pretty quickly,
and then it's truth-and-consequences time.
and the truth is ugly.
that's just my speed.
check the inner-infinity-type teleport:

too much is always just the right amount.
that's real.
*
so,
does that sort of sesame-oiled, slick, larynx-burning sh!t kick start
a brainful of crazy throat-bite werewolf overeating indigestion dreams?
yes, indeed.
i get rad on the residual effects of participatory activation.
how much sleep did i get last night?
none.
an all-nighter with no gold to show for all my spun straw?
grumpy dumple-flippin'-stiltskin is my name!
-
today's another chance to find out some things.
y'know,
like an exploratory fact-finding mission from within the borders
of the hot fire furnaces and barbarian boilers of warrior poetry,
inside the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress,
smack in the heart of the woodsly goodness.
that's a small area to search inside of for bits of information.
which really just makes it seem even weirder that i'm coming up with nothing.
may is down to it's last hours.
and there's still no signs of whatever top-secret recipe
i'm withholding deep down in the manly magma i call my 'feelings'.
this might be it, friends.
just more of all of this, all the time.
things are looking up-
push-ups, sit-ups, throw-ups, dust-ups...
optimism is relative to where you started from;
never quiet, never soft.....