Enero, 22

Off the top, I mean fist, I must
hand it to you, since you began
you’ve spread around such outlandish
rumors, such wonderful lies. Your
beauty lies in allotting shares
of what I want to hear, of what
I’d like to see, rather than gifts
of what exists. I’m hopeful though,
that you skimmed off the top, the worst
of the sickest of bits of sick foam
and flotsam. Please tell me you took
them off with your hands, your bare hands
with which you remove your panties,
with which you pick your nose, with which
you cook dinner. Your hands handle
no lies. They care only about
what can be grabbed, lifted, shuttled
from place to place. They are not moved
by your fibs. They will tell you off,
scratch you with nails, knead your tense
and remembering flesh. Those hands
meant to be yours in the offing.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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