The Blueberry Muffin
Rabe hits my holiday spirit hard, as I take a swig out of the old tin cup.
Lifted elephants fly around me on strings, like weightless angels. Carolers
reach my door sooner than expected as I go to grab my stone shovel with beveled
edge. Pry me away as I fall asleep tonight, looming deeper and deeper into the
seams of twilight. Luscious and pure, I rip my heart out from the sleeve and
throw it down like yesterday’s candied yams. I try to retrieve it, but fail
miserably, killing a nest of slimy birds in the process. Descending further
into black molasses, I hold my breath, and wait patiently for the white-bearded
complained about how cold I was as I walked angrily out of the South Garden
bakery, into a hearty 30-degree breeze. This was said dangerously by the
one-eyed clown, Veto, as he bellows deeply into a benign belly laugh. She’s
always on the hunt for her next victim. Goes to show you, never order 4 stuffed
mushrooms at an Italian restaurant in Staten Island.
the food would be good said the Blueberry Muffin Girl, but ALAS we are in
Carroll Gardens. The crooked man dropped his smile as the pigmentation fell off
like a Van Gogh dinner plate. Even the man with the wandering eye couldn’t help
but laugh. The sound of his happiness with the residue of distress just gets me
every time. He could only smile, but deep down he knew that his veins were
drenched with the oils and sweat of yesteryear. But first, the dome.
is a time for the taking – a brochure of sheer torture and meandering despair.
I once bought a snow dome for my niece, the Blueberry Muffin Girl, but she was
much smaller then. She reminded me of a crouched baby tiger, hiding restfully
under a green pleather-lined bed-frame – size: queen and a half, in case you
were wondering. Oh, what a holiday this will be – just me and my little blue
niece, what a treat! Not like apples though, I find them way too stressful.
BROCCOLI ON MY TITS! Snow falls delicately, reminiscent of a Clydesdale
swimming through the never-ending Baltic Sea. He stood there in a suit. He had
a red balloon head, and a white string for a neck. I was surprised at the
sight, for I would’ve thought it could’ve been something more sensible,
something more Christmas-related, something no one knows. We’re here now, and
that we’ll have to live with. It’s almost gone, and the little Blueberry baby
was staring at the door for hours, like a dog waiting for his best friend to
come from work. Looking- glass strings are hard to come by these days. They’re
always either sold out of or under-ordered. I cried at the thought and never
wanted to know just how long it would take.
The day is
here, and so is Santa. Rudolf made a hole in my roof which wasn’t too bad, but
then on my shoe, which filled my body with rage beyond design. Feeling triumph
though my bones as I opened the door for the man who eats my cookies. Blueberry
was right by my side as the door went from closed, to ajar, to open. Oh, the
duties of a door’s life.
the room wielding an ax with the words to inform us that he was here. The man
with the red balloon head came at us fast. I popped his bubble and then he went
down in shock. Cool climates couldn’t oblige? The hunt is over and the mystery
is solved. The children, including Blueberry, no longer need fear.
pursed lips are seen from across the room. Red, bright and all around tight.
Christmas balls hang in the bowery of the old damp basement. Try to take me
tonight, I dare you! His little helpers ransacked my room as I lay tied to a
dirty rusted bench. Train on! Train off! My wheels are turning with tinsel now.
Let it be known by the men of Yore that I will not demand any more decoration
this holiday season. Let me rest here tonight and recall the old year.
Snow is the
dust of winter – let it settle. Wise words that would be my last. I threw the
candy cane down and picked up the largest piece of striped porcelain and jammed
it as far down my neck as I could. I bleed colors. Green and red against the
grain, as I grimace at the site of little Blueberry Muffin Princess. She glares
out as I bleed to my death. Skittled rainbows drain from me as I drift away
into a cloudy death.
up her bags and then went home. My body was left, preserved by the cold. And this
concludes my Christmas. Bye-bye Blueberry Muffin Girl. Bye-Bye, Binx. Don’t
mold up guys, and always stay strong. Merry Christmas.