May 2020
My fingers are really good at lying
I wave at people I don’t want to see
My fingers make art when I totally don’t know what I’m doing, and
What am I doing with 10 chicken bones on these limp noodle arms?
Klutz that I am,
I can button as many shirts and jackets over this heartbeat sound booth, but it won’t matter
My fingers will struggle with the the buttons in their awkward glory
Half my button up shirts have buttons in my left hand, for someone else to fasten
Leftover from some medieval fever dream where maids dressed their mistresses, facing buttons and more buttons on their right side
My favorite jacket’s a worn denim cocoon. The buttons are on the right. They are meant for the glorified capable, the mask-less masculine, and history may tell me they are not meant for these skinny digit fingers in their awkward glory
They’re not meant for these limp arms.
Anyway, I’m trying to be ambidextrous with buttons.
I’m sort of ambidextrous already.
I’m ambidextrous like a strong willed crybaby
I’m ambidextrous like an overstimulated introvert listening to post rock and folk metal.
I’m ambidextrous like I’m holding the scientific method in my skinny digit fingers and then going home and painting an abstract picture about it.
I’m ambidextrous like how I hate being laughed at but I don’t want to be taken too seriously.
I’m ambidextrous, like In class, half my notes stream out of my right side brain, all doodles and song lyrics and wanderings, half my right brain, straight lines descending into messy pen scribbles.
My left hand is not good at keeping up. I don’t write well, but I still consider myself ambidextrous. I’ll get there
I’ll be doing buttons with my left, drawing with the side my heart is on
I’ll be crying to punk, I’ll be head banging to classical, I’ll be signing “I love you” with my weak hand,
I’ll be trying to get the knots out of both shoulders and both ventricles,
My heart is too in reach, it must be these bony little fingers.
I wave at people I don’t want to see
My fingers make art when I totally don’t know what I’m doing, and
What am I doing with 10 chicken bones on these limp noodle arms?
Klutz that I am,
I can button as many shirts and jackets over this heartbeat sound booth, but it won’t matter
My fingers will struggle with the the buttons in their awkward glory
Half my button up shirts have buttons in my left hand, for someone else to fasten
Leftover from some medieval fever dream where maids dressed their mistresses, facing buttons and more buttons on their right side
My favorite jacket’s a worn denim cocoon. The buttons are on the right. They are meant for the glorified capable, the mask-less masculine, and history may tell me they are not meant for these skinny digit fingers in their awkward glory
They’re not meant for these limp arms.
Anyway, I’m trying to be ambidextrous with buttons.
I’m sort of ambidextrous already.
I’m ambidextrous like a strong willed crybaby
I’m ambidextrous like an overstimulated introvert listening to post rock and folk metal.
I’m ambidextrous like I’m holding the scientific method in my skinny digit fingers and then going home and painting an abstract picture about it.
I’m ambidextrous like how I hate being laughed at but I don’t want to be taken too seriously.
I’m ambidextrous, like In class, half my notes stream out of my right side brain, all doodles and song lyrics and wanderings, half my right brain, straight lines descending into messy pen scribbles.
My left hand is not good at keeping up. I don’t write well, but I still consider myself ambidextrous. I’ll get there
I’ll be doing buttons with my left, drawing with the side my heart is on
I’ll be crying to punk, I’ll be head banging to classical, I’ll be signing “I love you” with my weak hand,
I’ll be trying to get the knots out of both shoulders and both ventricles,
My heart is too in reach, it must be these bony little fingers.
