Tempers flare like sunspots:
so angry, so quick,
such a little thing to get upset about--
an iceberg tip,
a foundation problem:
nothing but what's been going on unabated
under the surface all these years.
the foolish man built his house upon the sand.
perceived wrongdoings.
a little paranoid schizophrenetic,
getting red in the face and walking off with the trunk open.
The gavel bangs.
Spend three days in a closet, drinking beer!
Sir? Yes, sir.
the foolish man built his house upon the sand.
who built the foolish man?
who built the sand?
The condo is dark and sparse. Disappointment crimps
the edges of lips
lost in the lips of others, glossed and
probably fourteen. We shuffle around,
rearranging furniture, opening windows,
looking forward to masturbation
and a good cigarette when we get back,
though it won't quite satisfy.
The foolish man built his house upon the sand.
He pushed away the wind and the waves with the might of his arms,
and the house stood firm.
All hail the quiet silence. All hail the king of awkward glances,
the queen, the full, the two twin beds like dollhouse mattresses.
We exchange money for time and fishing licenses,
and the absurdity almost kills us,
but, through sheer luck, misses
and strikes a passerby instead.
The foolish man's children went to play with the wise man's children
and came back trying to get him to move his house onto firmer ground,
and out of spite and pride he refused. But now the time was coming
when the foolish man would no longer be able to hold back the wind and the waves,
and his wife pleaded with them to stay. |
Submission Name: And Nursed the Shoreline Like a Wound
