Monday, January 27, 2014

Why Why Why

Given we are the inventors,
The dispensers original
Of advice, is our advice
So much goddammed

Bad advice? I write
This query to you, madam,
Or, possibly, sir, from
My desk in my office

In the former grocery store
Butcher shop of a campus
In the desert in the rain.
It's dark. No sun left here.

In the desert, unlike
The Arctic, the sun,
However mighty, nasty hot,
Does not ever burn all night.

So I pull my blinds
And blinders on, mostly
To avoid any reflection
Inward on me. You see.

You may not be amused.
You should not be impressed
With either yourself or me,
But down deep, hard, you know

You see. I, on
The other sense,
Hearing the hammering, flee.
Time to go no home from here.

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