A Christmas Floem, you may not know them well,
but I’m here to tell that a floem is a Freddy Flow poem, so then, to begin:
Zen parable: What is the sound of one cracker rapping?
like mid-summer bug zapping, it gnaws at the bone of the soul,
leaves a hole, rolls snake eyes, bowls gutterballs, bawls out evil stepchildren,
sets the witches’ cauldrons aboiling with Double Bubble toilet trouble,
eye of Newt, gland of Cain–let’s begin again, shall we?
This Christmas poem has derailed. Failed its snowflake moment.
Bailed from the sinking dinghy of sentiment. Touched the third rail of gone-and-went.
Bent down for the soap . . . nope, not going there.
Screw it! Merry Christmas, I’m crossing this shit off my list.