there’s this fear in my stomach
it’s kind of like when you turn off the lava lamp
and this cold lump settles at the bottom
will I have to make amends for
the heads I’ve bitten off,
for the hearts I’ve sledgehammered?
oh, you need to talk now?
I’ll just shut up about my silly problems
and listen --
go right ahead
oh, gosh, that’s awful
here, I’ll try to paint myself
on the inside of your skull
and advise from in there
like Metis inside Zeus
and I know I’d better not be wrong
or there’ll be hell to pay
or is there already?
apparently someone’s packed my brain in cotton
while I’m fumbling in the dark
without the cluttering influence of eyesight
though my mental lens is the one
with several strata of dirt and grime on it
I’m the serpent that never bites
and eventually all this venom is going to poison me
so I snuggle down into my afghan and try
not to think about it
but a cool draft comes along and I’m exposed again
because afghans are nothing more than a
collection of holes
humans’ life expectancy is going up
but they wear out so much faster
just call me Holden
Back to Stuff I Wrote.
© Cynthia 2002.