All photographs are by Russell Bittner
N o v e m b e r
Very little of November
really grabs me in December
like my calendar, galumphing for the door.
And yet nothing in my pocket
moves an angry inch to block it
as I lock ‘n’ load, take aim, and strafe the floor.
Our new venture’s sounding bleaker
as I shake an eager beaker,
reprimanding one dumb barkeep to pour more—
till, while wrastling a bottle,
I rip off its redneck throttle,
and we shoot the shit as Buba sells the store.
* * * * * * * * * *
How deliciously seditious
was our tedious little Prius
until nipping ‘round the town lost all its lore.
Then I found a hearse to hump it
with a samovar and strumpet
who lit up my night like one bright Лада-whore.
So, let’s sink this silly circus,
write a book and pray that Kirkus
doesn’t lead the sheep in bleating Such a bore!—
since it’s only daft December
whose last draft of “Kill the Sender”
is how Kirkus geeks would render “Je t’adore.”