The Gonzo Wolf

One month behind

My mind replied

To questions; weeks I’d pondered

Darkness, meanness

Downright loathing

Fear, cliched; we wandered

No gift, no kiss

No hit or miss

No “wishes” from George Bailey

Rescue-follied

Melancholy’d

Apocalypse played daily

On nightly news

Which hand, the bruise

That demon gave the order

Yet, quite offended

Words rescended

Great Cheeto Disorder

Demons gasped

Like WTF

This guy’s not one of us

They formed a union

Blood communion

Then ate him without fuss

The end.

Pause.

I had to leave the porch swing for dinner. My wife made an entire tray of mozzarella-stuffed meatballs, then put them into a spinach and alfredo soup, almost like an Italian-Style Wedding soup, but bigger meatballs. Then, she made the bad-ass wife equivalent of mini-Red Lobster Cheddar Bay Biscuits to eat atop the soup.

With each bite, the biscuit got softer and softer, eventually becoming the world’s tastiest dumpling. Olive Garden has dick on my wife, and she was born in Iowa.

I don’t want to change the subject – I really don’t – but it’s been quite the barren, frozen weekend here on the home-front, and she was constantly in the kitchen; cooking or baking. Soups, sliced pork and homemade mash, a new spin on her best southwestern chili, as well as cookies and chocolate chip muffins every night.

She didn’t do it because we were hungry, mo-fo can eat a sandwich and get over it. She did it because she loves it; loves me.

So, in all this hullaballoo regarding the end of life as we know it, don’t forget to hug those who’re trying to keep life as normal as possible.

Regardless of the bullshit on the tiny tv in our pockets.

I’d smash every screen in this house if I thought it would somehow lessen reality.

I didn’t watch the news today. With all that snow outside, it kind of felt like Christmas. A good one. Better than most.

Christmas from another time and place.