so happy i could just spit.
molti mascheras.
books, schmooks.
fairy tales.
sarai.
you, predisposed to fall, yet unshaken.
please, if you know the difference between the hand and the cradle that rocks un-abated, do not hide the hand from the one in need. do not ostracize the one who is angry. this poem begs for the grace of chopsticks in thin hands. the hands beg for other hands. the voice wants to make itself into a thin stream of smoke, sucking in and out on itself, pulling the even patchouli breaths out of modulated vapor. do not ostracize the poet because he can't tell a woman from a tulip. we walking modern novels pass each other with open palms. please, take the hand when offered. this poem begs for mercy. do not ostracize the has-been, the non-career. do not ostracize the man on the bus in the green plaid shirt, the one who smells like sulphur and calla lilies. embrace him. he could be your christ in a vagrant moment, moving in time with orchid and ruah, the underside of his thigh needing a tube of polysporin. do not ostracize the toothless. with teeth we sear metal and sedate ourselves, we are subject to the drug of a kiss. with kisses we convince, leave the roll-away rolled, we connive with alliterative devices, we are able to hide our skank. do not ostracize yourself. this poem begs rest from flight. file yourself down to the quick of a root, a bolt. it is time to mix metaphors. this poem cannot tell you where to heal, how to find the crux of the matter, the what factor, the thing that counts. this poem, too, begs an answer.