Friday, January 7, 2011
blowing off the dust
i am not here to please you. i
can barely please myself. can
you lasso your urge to control me. you
are starting to sound like the old country.
the traditionalist who insists it is a bad
idea to drink coffee at night. i’ve no time
for logic. i’m too busy cleaning up after
my self. the one you wished would resist
holding a glass in case it might break. she
is gone, but she sure left a lot lying around.
and it is all a bit stuck, near completely
glued underneath the stack of your
old Sunset magazines. and now i
too often sit next to a shadow who
fears your visit at any moment.
we agree we are most afraid of
your hands, whose palms will
cover ears and slide fingers
along the corners of hidden
shelves that were better
left untouched. better