I dream of a world
where you're not raging at me
or ridiculing me to your friends
for simply
my just being me..
Where you're not throwing me
under the bus in order
to make things go your way.
There is a lodgepole pine,
a stick of wood that you fancy
as a staff in front of the crowd
But like every single one of them--
it is only a prop
to keep you from falling over..
Wordsmith-formed, your poetic
carvings
into your staff, only weaken it
And no one in your selected crowd
has the courage
or the substance
to tell you that the drawn out nature
of each creative word
only hastens the prop's break.
. . .
The weight of the brass, polished
on your ship, sinking down
will break the mast at its base..
to that place.. all the way, down--
the place where you have c a r v e d
your most
finely
selected word.
'baby fall down'
~T Bone Burnett
.
