vomitice

it's too cold to have a hot trot in the sweet, softening sun,
though all the imaginary forward marchs are still in effect.
a tempetured motion to wrack each firm decision
with approval,
indefinite steps to tomorrowdom.
just as one pancake comes down flat in a drizzle
of sad gluey circles,
one circle comes tilted and bound by syrup.
i could live off breakfast foods,
and non-dairy creamers
although i know they're bad for my bones.
i could eat every sun flake from god
if it didn't ruin my whole torso,
my smelly organ heart.
i could put every waxy decision in my hat
and mold my head
if the sun were stronger than most shaded
evening dinners.
when the one day comes
i'll be carrying my commitments anyway,
and all i've ate, all i've stood
will come bleating back up.