Fine. Okay. I have three minutes before the end of my break. In that time -- and no more -- I will write a stream of consciousness poem.
ugly
oh, oh here, here it is
the green, the red, the earth collapsing
the blackness, the whiteness, the phantom fields
and here, here, is the scissors of hate
cutting the pages of an old, worn, loved family Bible
into small triangles with muddled words on them, words like "oses," "evelatio"
and i wish, oh, i wish that i had 700 nuns that could look at these triangles and put them back where they belong
in my heart, my soul, my life.
There. Now wasn't that special?
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
i sincerely do not know what you are doing here. are you lost? were you
looking for your delicate calico cat, and did you follow her up two flights of stairs
to this room? she is not here. she was here, yes. we gave her a warm bowl of milk, we talked with her about campaign finance reform for a time, and then she bid us good day. i believe she was
going to the post office two blocks down, but i don't quite recall.
for surely you did
not find your way from prinsiana, the least traveled site on
the internet. if you did, though, perhaps you are looking for humor. perhaps you are looking for profundity. perhaps you are looking for answers.
i'm sorry, but you shall go naught-for-three.
