"Forecast Calls for Overcast Skies and a Shower of Business Men"

The windows thought they knew what rain sounded like,

They did not know it sounded like men falling from the sky,

Quiet men in trench coats, ties, and bowler hats,

Standing straight up like pins,

So they'd fall that much harder,

Staring off into space as if falling from the sky

Was a perfectly normal way to go to work.

For the Love of Chicken

Your honor, I must confess. I'm completely innocent in this mess. All I heard about was the cash, and well...the chicken. Yes your honor, I said chicken.

I suppose I should explain myself. It's the smell, really, the greasy slimy smell. I find it so...enticing, like a bee to nectar. One day I walked into the restaurant, and found myself in the middle of a very important meeting. I must admit, I really didn't pay attention to much, except the chicken. Did I mention that hot wings are my favorite?

Honestly, your honest honor, I had no idea I was involved in a terrorist plot until the officer told me so! Now that I've been arrested, do you think the restaurant will still give me free chicken? I really love chicken, especially when it's free.

Mr. Manager

Mr. Manager raises dreams,

Then kills them with detergent mixed

with capitalistic greed.

It doesn't taste like cherry syrup,

Or blue coconut.

Rather it tastes like greenish-whiteish tomatoes

On a burnt cheeseburger,

That's 30 seconds late.

Flavorings of the Future

What does tomorrow taste like? Does it taste like ripe strawberries from the garden? Does it taste like sour grapes?

Does it taste like rainbows? Like clouds? Like crisp mountains? Like fertile valleys?

Or goes it sour at the sound of war, like milk past the expiration date? Does it lose its flavor like hard-headedness? Like a love forgotten?

What does tomorrow taste like? Do I decide?

Emotion

Crying thick tears,

Like drops of paint.

With cheap mascara, I probably look like a Pollock painting.

But why don't I feel like a masterpiece?

Why do I need appraisal?

I don't need to feel like finger-paint blotches

Yellowing on a refrigerator door,

Loved only by my mother.

I am loved by more than just her,

Perhaps not by the critics,

But what do they know about art?

Bread Crumbs

Thinking about you.

I've been thinking about you  a lot recently. With all your recent accomplishments, it's hard not to. I know our relationship's been a bit rocky lately, with all the listening devices and undercover informants serving as your customers. I had to keep tabs on you somehow.

I'll gladly accept your busted drugs as gifts to my investigation, and give you this card (and the right to remain silent) as a thank you. The jail cell might not seem like much, but I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to get used to it.

Lawfully yours,

The Police Department