Fortune Cookie

It is National Poetry month, stimpy. So I’m gonna crap out poems from time to time in lieu of writing other crap instead. I make no claims on the quality of anything that appears, since I’m going to give myself no more than a half hour on each. Workshop ’em if you want; rewrite ’em if you want; ignore ’em if you want. And remember to write your own stuff for my contest!

You catch the film at six;
three Chinese children
blood spread like duck sauce
on the walls-
cold fingers stiff
like chow mein noodles.

At seven you decide
on take-out; the delivery boy
forgets your duck sauce-
you don’t tip.

Eight o’clock and
you read your fortune cookie:

They say
Cato committed suicide
because he would not live under Cæsar.

Nein o’clock and all is well.