ANTIDOTE FOR HAPPINESS.

poems are easy.

too much so, perhaps.

throw down a word;

followed by another word;

another, so on and so forth.
then barf, and all is gone,
much like a frantic wind.

give it a name

call it a poem

take it out to supper

take it to bed

wake up pregnant 
if not pregnant, at least happy.

calm, objective;

to all things prevalent 

curiosity in small doses

as should paranoia 
living off empty souls. 

stay thirsty, my friends 

chicken slapping was never

my intention.

but one will suffer only

so much of that endless

chicken chatter before

nerves become frayed

and the need to reach out 

and touch someone

becomes utmost important.

chicken slapping becomes

most relevant, if only

to shut those squawky 

hens up for a moment or two

of sheer peace and quiet.

that dying echo
was a cry
for help

rapturous cry in the night
startles spirits into flight
dreading coming morning light
rapturous cries die slowly
redefining day and night