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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume V, Issue II

..:: POETRY ::..


..:: PROSE ::..
..:: OTHER ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
   Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I

 
Poetry


to the disgusting pig who spit on my window
this 
morning - w4m - 35 (Juniper& Walnut)

John Biando

     


Reply to: pers-esyse-1101378346@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]
Date: 2009-03-31, 7:44PM EDT

Yes, I am talking to you.
You give right-handers a narcissistic billfold.
Look, right-handers need your wrist-splint
like they need a bucket of pigeyes and violins.

Don't you know how dangling wrists thrill villages?
They are our owls, sliding through the night over
pistols and bloodbaths.  Right-handers won't splint
their evening winnings, won't drop snakes and liberty from their perches.

There are crazies who would have followed you for your billfold,
oh, my go-getter, rolled you around the corner in a barrel
if not for our nervous wrists.  Something is going to ruin your deadline
even if you tighten our hands with screwdrivers.

That's right, your enemies will have you jumping
through carbon-spitting hoops, hissing dead lines,
writhing live wires.  Try splinting a hot tailpipe.

The difference is vast as the sea to an oyster.
And do you expect firm wrists to turn screwdrivers
and part our lips?  Screw up your courage and ask me instead
not for summations, not for strictures, but for omissions.

Stop, drop, and turn red.
It is illegal to turn red in PA, I might add, but
I did not give you fire, fireman.
I simply mouthed, "Oh, my God!"

  

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