i write a poem for them, and they
say aww, that’s so sweet. what made you
think of that?
but that’s the wrong response.
not the one I was looking for.
i shrug and play humble like it’s a member of the woodwinds.
awkward silence now spins me around,
slaps me on my ass,
and sends me forthwith.
my heart topples like a redwood in the most guilt-
arousing deforestation documentary ever.
a systematic voice yells timmberr.
There isn't a mission. There isn't a goal. It's just words on fake paper, sliding and tripping and flowing all over the place, because we're all full up on words in here and there is no way we can keep them inside. Like Tony says, "Nothing in here is true."
Monday, June 05, 2006
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