De Minimus Non Curat Lex Poem by David Kowalczyk

You breath like a poodle.
Your veins are dry.
You are haunted by a
past perceived as omniscient.

In the enchanted present,
every day is Christmas,
even in the land of burning
strawberries, where ghosts
rollerskate on the edge
of a nightmare.

Drink the wine!
It will unlock your heart,
give wings to the stars
within you, and calm the
multitudes of menopausal crones
waiting to steal your soul.

Change your name to Mars.
Realize the known
is your greatest enemy.
It forces you to
ignore the miraculous.