WENT FOR BROKE

the first yellow light of morning crackles underfoot, and everybody wants a piece:

dozing salami loaves require company

ginger cow requires oats posthaste

fawning accomplice requires a quick poop in the snow

wicked goat requires shoelaces and sweet nothings

the commandante requires a swift boot in the honker

the troops require direction. lacking this, will circle loudly for hours.

the battalion requires earplugs.

But December's gone and so are we. a winter on the farm, stoking the embarrassingly deep desires of ownership, wanting LAND, for all the goats and chickens and idiot geese we could gather. oh, well, i guess internal conflict is good for "creative tension." desires for stasis have a place in the puzzle alongside these itchy feet... allons, another smooch for the goat, and we're on our way.

je me souviens de vous bien, mon goaty amore