I hate February.
(It means mud-month [Solmonath])
I live in a little, plastic kettle, February.
I saw a colorful sign today: MOLDY ICE.
Hello, ice-cream face.
Leave me alone.
Hello, great pale ugly thing lying on its back.
Lions, tigers, wolves, foxes, and shit of various kinds–February.
(It means cabbage [Kale-monath])
There is huge flashing sign in front of the funeral home and it flashes DRIVE CAREFUL!! and it pisses me off, February.
Hi February. I am going to pencil in these eyebrows, then punch you in the face.
(Ronald Reagan was born in February. Same day as Axl Rose. Zsa Zsa Gabor. You get the idea. Fuck Reagan.)
The dog turd in the snow on the parking lot glinted.
None of the rules of February are made or could be made by me–and that is frustrating.
I would like to take a chauffeur-driven jeep and drive it right into the kneecaps of February, like mash February into a bus, or a low bus step, or a childbirth of low bus steps. I would like to see February out job-hunting, that type of misery.
There are the budget cuts.
You are now sharing an office with February.
A low mournful hoot.
My Subaru tumbles over and is wriggling its tires.
The snowplowed mountain of shit.
The palace where there is more abundance of shit than in Antarctica.
My debut upon the world’s stage occurred on February 26, 1845, in the State of Iowa.
Buffalo Bill (fuck him)
The pleasure that contains feathered shit, beasts of shit, herbal shits and flowered shits, all wrought in shit–February.
I have to sit here while February squeezes my left breast. This is demeaning.