Friday, January 17, 2014
I will never win an Oscar.
What shall we discuss
Today the petty matters at hand must be dictated
must be analyzed
written in full-sentenced six-paragraphed bold accusation;
must be hung askew and left dangling
on the flimsy rope of naive opinion.
Shall we talk about my hips? My love of woodland creatures?
Or the ever-rising price of hair elastics?
Or would it please you to dissect my roof, my attachment to it,
my desire to keep the garbage off doorsteps?
There's the way I park my car
(to avoid stepping in the garden),
my unbending big and little-people responsibility expectation,
there's the curve in my
spine toward amicability
(to avoid stepping in the dirt),
my preference toward adult maturity predication.
All these big words,
can they be referenced?
When the matters of today are me,
I will be a part of it.