Poem.

NO GLUE By Austen J. Brauker
On a certain day
After a Christmas tree dies
The room spits cat piss.

Limbless and needles
Time for muddy wasted hands
Planting discontent

What do the proles think
Of the happy crucified
Arbor of life tree?

The time clock shoots men
It rains down chunks of minutes
Flesh and gears are one

Undertime wages
Enough presence for a self
In place to die alone

Milk god then shot blood
From the nose like a fountain
as I make them laugh

They can feed the world
A snake that eats itself blind
And we can all see

On a certain day
After a box kept cat dies
Hanging pine tree scents

Tired ornaments
Spin on a windless demon
In Calder balloons

The author offers an alternate title as follows: “Remember that horrific Christmas when Mom and Dad took our favorite Shetland pony to the mucilage glue factory so they could sell him for nine dollars to get drunk on cheap port wine?”