De Blasio Loves Criminals
I dove into a tail spin until I worried my way up into a facial star. I love you like a banana, tripping on my words as I peel your layers.
You come to me. I come to you. We come when the timing is right but I always arrive even if it is premature.
I would like to play thumbsy with you and interlock the other eight fingers in an intimate chase.
I love you more than less and less than a spaghetti mess. We are inside out and turn about in an articulate igloo. It’s cold outside but melting indoors.
Sometimes you think I am a meatball. But I am not a fat mafia soldier in jail smuggling food to his fat bunk.
I am the last of the proud athletic Jews. I don’t waste my time feeling sympathy for the dregs of the earth and imagining that criminals are monks.
Mayor de Blasio wants to give criminals Dunkin Donut cards. He wants to shorten their sentences. He doesn’t realize that he is too tall to slip under the gates of heaven.
He is too empathetic to recognize a true emotion or stop a bullet with his mushy voice.