Interlude # 3
When I read Robert Bly
and wait for my father to call
I feel like I must choose
to half-exsist all the time
or to fully exsist,
half of the time.
If left alone long enough
I will boil over
and pour my wetness
all around the countertop,
pooling patiently like people at the DMV,
waiting to be absorbed.
I've always religiously hoped
that Hiesenberg was dead-on
and one day when I
Karate chop my Kitchen Table,
the blade-edge of my hand
will pass directly through.
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