Just another Sunday
Paddle-boat ride
on a man-made lake
with another lady stranger.
If I remain lost and die on a cross,
at least I wasn't born in a manger.
I can sense, somewhere right
now I'm being prayed for.
Seems like I always arrive
at the same shore
from where my sails set
maybe with one less lady
than my vessel left with.
Is that a threat?
Oh, I've stayed scarce
this past year, yes.
But be assured in unrest:
I'm unavoidable, like death
this Christmas. Is this twisted?
Why be upset? I never said I
didn't have syphilis,
Miss Listless -- Hard like the
bricks I pound my fists with.
I mean, she's hard like the bricks
that I pound with my fists.
This is "The fall of Mr. Fifths,
forged for the hordes
and the ladies and lords,
set with fat chords
in modern English.
I know, I know,
There's nothing more appealing
than the sound of high heels
down the marble tile hallways
of your districts one alloted
city-funded Steiner school,
Bilingual or Montessori,
followed by a single
high-pitched scream,
followed by breaking glass.
But could your anger be mapped
into an interpretive dance
to a trip-hop track? Could it be
bowed out on strings?
Or strung into a pattern for a God's eye to bring
to your alma-mater's holiday
fundraiser boutique thing?
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