the many and many and many maladies,
of my physicality, that steal steel abilities,
like tinker toys, tough like tonka trucks,
and my lincoln log facade, visage
not of a marfanned man, but of a child,
with all the unformed deficiencies,
seen by the crow's eye as the crow flies
    --las líneas de la frente
and the cracks and chips in dentin valleys
still to be turned and flowed and filled --
still after all these years!
and bumps and bumps and bumps,
saucers and cups turned wrong-side up,
burned from sharp encounters
and dirty ones, too, i presume-
ably can live this way,
so wisp-haired and prone
to the embarassment of wind and rain,
that i
can't really live this way,
and i can not either comply with this
dry eye situation,
crummy and crumbling, coming every night
and i'm not,
too java-beaned out on energy or lethargy,
one or the other, doesn't matter,
i'm whelming water right up under the chin,
but never over-
performing, following my pointy prow,
pointing it in places wrong enough
until you look closely
and see and see and see
and, wisely,
FLEE!

02/11/2005

Posted on 02/11/2005
Copyright © 2026 Daniel Peterson