Friday, February 17, 2012

The Day’s Unexploded Landmines

I’m too deep into the dishsoap to clean the blood off of my hands,
The tragic flaws of all my friends are all my fault
                                                                              But none of my business

Though I vouch for the Navajos their right to text (“dude” … “dude”)
                                           While standing up (like painting a fresco)
         And occasionally with the phone to the sky to be closer to God
And this is admitted to the bar
                                                  As long as I let someone come behind 
To change it:
                      “It couldn’t be clearer 
                                                             The end of the world is near.”

                                It takes a village to keep the truth from being said

But it only takes one dishwater poor blonde 
               To draw white spiral monkey paw with her fangs
                               For my whole concept of free will to transform:
        “I’m so fallen on hard times 
                                                        I’ll do anything at any time”

But then she tells me she is learning how to write like Gertrude Stein
Because the way we’re taught to write as children
                                                                                    Screws us up
The subject and predicate destroy our minds
And I think how sad it is
                                         That I am hanging around with people
Who’d think this was insane instead of
                                                                Obvious.

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