Year of the Rooster’s

In you, and in me, there is a child-essence glowing and emanating like sphered, cylindrical lights, which merge and blur even when you’ve got the cocking of posture, the show of shaking red crown and scratching dirt, because which of the roosters doesn’t need water?

We all must drink and I too have the purpled-green, feathered sheen of ego, most pronounced on my fear-riding, proud days, too much to put up with hen yard scratching’s and the bit of cornmeal between the fat of iridescent June bugs, their crunchy shells, and protein powers.

At the bank, I watch the home show choosing’s of those who’ve won some lottery and pick to make their best showmanship of Island houses, where others must boat in to be entertained on white sands, monkey’s and their covert brashness swing from the palms, jump with stolen treasures in their hands.

No, I am not in line, but pulled in just the same to TV fantasies prescribed, better lives than those in which we must beat our drums to harmonize our hearts away from the pseudo cell-towered pulls of wi-fi living. Today, I must make an oath to stop getting my information from the youtube expose’ and instead listen for the connotative meanings in your own crowing’s, lest the egg farmer plunk us in a boiling pot to stew.

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