Cassowary Casserole
The recipe calls for surprise and amazement.
Catching the cassowary is adventure enough.
Plucking that sucker is like swimming in fear.
Positions and juxtapositions; a dash of marvel.
Sauté two AM nights and hungover mornings.
Random additions accidentally acidulate the mix.
A dose of angels shining like needed friends.
Flakes of judges, jail, and psychiatric wards.
Granulated memories of far off fled places.
Crows with broken wings singing Sumerian songs.
Croaking politicians caught hopping in a swamp.
Tidbits of other writers, the living and the dead.
Fold in a plop of doom and a smidgen of dread.
Macerated vulture wings that followed for years.
One, two, or possibly three scalded ghost cats.
Churned Cheshire smiles of fading, lost lovers.
Always a dollop of death, a driblet of despair.
A kneaded lump of inappropriate laughter.
A little drunk of bourbon. A flashback of LSD.
Shreds of nightmares; shards of visions.
Everything you are ashamed of, combined
with all the things you never got around to.
Don’t forget to whip the Madness hard.
Bake it in a covered dish for centuries past.
Makes more than enough for one life.
Leftovers should be promptly discarded.
Like the cook, they nearly never last.
If you like this piece, and can afford it, please take a moment and donate a few survival shekels.
Buy a pard a drink?
