Giorgio by Moroder

Mom said “Today,
we bake a cake.”

I was eight, and a boy,
and my toys

were plastic cast
into weapons

teaching me to hate,
and cars teaching

me to escape. She
showed me spoons,

and cups, and eggs,
round bottomed things.

Taught me to measure,
and the pleasure it takes

to create.
The batter thickened.

Oil so it would not stick.
I licked the bowl.

The whole thing
took half the day.

The toys are filling
land in a trash heap.

The cake
is a lemon memory.

Mom? We don’t talk
much. Maybe

I’ve mixed
the whole thing up.

Sons who move
away. Old women

alive yesterday.
She never wore

an apron. I’ve never
let a lover in. I sit still

quietly in the morning
planning destruction

in my imagination,
in realities where I’m

the maker of destiny,
before I must follow

instructions, spend
all day filling out forms

with the heat inside
me rising slowly,

so I can bake
the world like batter,

rather than fire
like an engine,

like a high
powered machine,

or like a furnace
hardening clay.



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

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