I hate your hay hair
That must be the driest pluck of farmland in California
You’re a fire hazard
Do you like having hair made of straw?
Are you waiting for Rumplestiltskin to weave it into gold?
This must be the peak of dehydration
Your hay hair is drier than sand
It’s kindling
The crows are coming to nest
Must be humiliating
when the invitations go unanswered
Worse though
when the help prefers to clear the tables
than endure the party
Heartlessly fulfilled
What a plentiful wasteland
And so I stand here in a desert
Flat but golden
Shimmering even
What is this?
A laughing, taunting goodbye?
A jeering show of rejection?
Some kind of jovial dismissal?
It is, it is
as truly as a violin weeps
as certain as a saxophone mourns
it is a pleasure to close the door behind you
for now, tangibly relieving
may I watch the horizon capture you
Disappeared then
in a long and soft forever
Line in the sand
It’s drawn there like a…drawbridge
It’s a hard line, for walking or for towing
But drag it in front of your friends
because you’re tired of them
Line in the sand
This one’s elastic like…expectations
It’s a bendy line, for pulling or for stretching
So drop it at the front door of danger
because without love, what is there?
***
Pacified then,
I had other plans for this one
But
Something’s happened
#pushing-away-friends-who-are-kind-without-condition-and-becoming-too-available-to-people-who-come-with-conditions-for-being-friends
#you’re-dissatisfied
The Irish goodbye
A frequent maneuver of mine
Communication without any
I appeared
Vanished
Consider the move intentional writing
on an invisible page
Like suicide,
it has nothing to do with you
How subliminally selfish.
You concluded your purpose
with the daintiest of handling.
Fucked would be my word.
Enjoy your university, sir
I’m high anyway
I’ve got my vo-cab-er-net
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