a new kind of december
by Nate Patrus and Mark Peters

      i make coffee before i remember all the people i should launder

                   i double-cross my bird on the prayer of a number of a dog

            the observations fillet the segments

                   my priorities thump the reverend to pittsburgh

           your hands struck the duck

      there are no taboos in the mouse world

              everyone enjoys impeccable plays when we do the fluid

                    heavenly politicians russian for bananas and bullets

       heart-filled terrorists who spill their commas for periods

          	              lung cancer for a door prize in a winchester afternoon

                  the canyon takes me to the condom

                               charlie parker makes me aware of his cigar

          government and not me shredding yeahhh puppet like you

                      replacement take the place of you

              that's while you're a stranger

                                       sperm slomp

                           oil minus math



                              rabbits and meat alright

          sorry to kill you but we're trying to have some civilization in here

                        	  stacking the knowledge across the foreign bodies

              i tried to find chicago with the plants

          hiding in the childhood of you misunderstanding

                         she honked her med students like a doctor

                    formulating a new kind of december

        solo full of brain liberating fairy land about half past the pause

    i had to give up my bullets of my government of aliens for my nation in a truck

                   		            oh betty sue

                                    i trusted you with my airplanes and my haiku

     i gave you seventeen hospitals and fourteen children in your christmas

                            and the cookies looking at poverty with a bad name

         and ravioli getting trust and responsibility

                                       what am i some kind of pot pie burned out on jesus

                        tracing history on a two-dollar debate

           pleading a blister on the grimp of a resolution

                                   a lonely state i can't even fit in my truck

                  dismissed at the thin air

                        i join my shoes in the afterlife

Written December 1997 DRC