Inexpensive Cupcake

Don’t know if you’ve noticed the papers recently as they are covered with bombs and warfare abroad in places no one has been to that scares the baby in us all, that waits on the sidelines of life, wanting to know if, there is a chance for anything like tomorrow and his hobo-walking-stride and cigarette in hand pollution pouring from it—a factory at the tip of the world-end where everything turns dark-night from smog of bad breath, to come in and brush your teeth even if you don’t like it, to keep the dentists away is to keep a fat pocket, and we all need a little incentive from time to time, but to the extend that raincoats don’t protect our non-ultraviolet skin and shakes from the other side of the globe continually break the family of ancestors inside the spinal chord of us all without ears pressed to the beating heart of death and her grandmother-earth whispering for love and loving us nonetheless, we can’t see with our traffic in front of our eyes and needing to get there all the time all the time, then finally getting there, dinner on the table, clean up, good night, and next day routine all over again, newspaper on front step, when all we need to do is use the internet for the news, like we’re searching for something in there, our own reflection, a bathroom mirror, the award we’ll never get, the shadows within us containing regret, and unsent packages of communication, necessary, but now drying in the wind with the rest of autumn’s fall as it talks of a thought it had but forgot, it was lost, but another moment arises, a cup of coffee later, suddenly we remember what it was all about, when speaking to the person these things are for, understanding the floor of our lives is as temporary as the next breath, and we inhale anyway, what bravery and courage, when examining this, like a soldier’s last step and this country-fried chicken of a many cornered-star holding back air from revealing hand-shakes with further arms to send drones with war but not men and women to make that difference of who fights where and when and rely on machines to do our dish work and the washer machine has been on since the sixties and no one knows where the off button is anymore, as all the smoke in the world can be contributed to too many thoughts without a body, a head without a neck, a torsos without a chest, a pelvis without crotch, thighs and knee caps, and shins and ankle, and all the tiny bones in the foot, no one can account for missing information as it just vanishes from the proof of a pudding taste-bud in hopes dress will be served twice because, let’s face it, we all want evidence of further sugar even after the child-sign is taken down and the last call was made in a broken Russian accent of something we could never forget—for it’s haunted and bone-chilling window-creak as a door gently slams shut from a howl in a distant memory gaining too many lightbulbs from the eyes of unbroken warrants in hunger and in love till-death-part stolen or unstolen melting metal in an iron forgery, without fists, and peace signs that turned out towards green companies to help provide awareness rather than continually ride their schoolyards into consciousness relocation bench-marks, that somewhere, at sometime we all need a bellybutton, even if that button is a collapse to meet the farmyard brochure and the tiny vacation it promises, with all its small font administers continual pipeline course of sides served to silence which is broken in the currency of non-documented corn-rolls which stroll and strut to prove something to somebody behind bars where non-cut swagger extolls percentage and hundreds are in search of their statistics but never find their moments without a complaint in an mailbox to an ideologue and statues governing systematic heart-rate telling us if we’re sick or not and where vanilla cupcakes are on sale at Ksupers, the one and only gorgeous, gourmet section, not too expensive in the world


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