My Cardboard Balcony

Tight-Lipped by Belinda Roddie Tight-lipped strangers sleeping in a snowy manger. Horse mane, slipping tail down the front of a dreamer's jeans. Coarse jerks, framed faces, trying to find rest in nicer places, corny lullabies, winter breath cooling down summer flesh. If the disciples are not here by sundown at the end of the year, then the nomads will find refuge in a different modest temple, where baked bread will be served, and dry fish will be ample, enough to sample minimalist pleasure in a Gothic architect's design. My house is not a dust bin, and I am not a failure within, and it's not much to ask for quiet when I'm driving my mind through bridges. Try crossing them, and you'll fall into a muddy water hole, spreading legs out asking for love, when the stables pile with tragedies, and the rich stop counting money, just to see our kind in mangers. I Brought You Two Salads by Belinda Roddie I brought you two salads for us

If walls could talk, they'd have card games, smoking cigars and hooting with papered mustaches, gaudy patterned neckties, and those painted waistcoats. While the tables and chairs would wish they could have a keg party, on all their own, were it not for the fact that decks of blackjack frenzies were laid upon them.