Thursday, May 10, 2012

Poem

Your allegiance to the mundane is unsettling
at best and laughable all night long.
You come into the room wearing historically plausible clothing
and I am very impressed with how genuine you are. Your gospel of
correctness rings like a bright brass bell in these murky times.
Let your diagnostics lift you up
with all sorts of potions and elixirs.
You are a professional: you understand
a lot because you paid a lot to find out how
they told you things work. Just tell us how things work.
Parts of you are rubbing off on everything you brush against me.
Your texture, character, ring and slub add to your authentic vibe.
The telltale blue ring on your neck, the balsamic taste of the flesh
behind your ears, the delight you take in correcting others.
If I just fork over my will then I don't get hurt.
I only sing when I am feeling sensible, resolute, encapsulated.
You are an expert, you are of the canon, you go. Go.
Here's a poem you can refer to when you want to know
exactly when I'm not coming home.

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