Tuesday, January 27, 2009


If only you were a butter knife – id be happy to let you smooth me out
Or one of those old quaint antiques ones, with ships of silver sailing on the thin blade.
Even a butterfly knife flutters off the tongue better
It can twirl in a hand and flap around striking me with awe at its lightning flit.
Fancy little red and white Swiss army knives
They smell of musty dirt adventures and hummus on Turkish bread in parks in berlin
Many days I watched as my brother cut air borne apples in half with his fong kong kitana
And history tales tell of long nights of a thousand knives slicing new paths to revolt against systems above
Cutting sleeves off Tshirts on hot days, trimming fringes when no scissors are about, cutting the rim off apple crumble pie…
But this one – this flip knife – cold – hard – used
nothing of pleasantries stirred up
an emptying exchange of divides
My philanthropy snatched turned rancid and
Your brash haste ingrained your disdain

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