Spare Words: Dear Numbnuts, letter 2

Completely forgot how angry I wanted this to be,

the mauled mural-strewn vaulted ceilings
detailing angry fingers pointing at equivocating
supplicants who find themselves,

again,

on the wrong side of the nail, with no pith, no sense of humor,

no relief from the bitter bitterness, the spleen of the pen

spewing vitriol in every direction like a…

like a…

like a one of those broken thingamajiggies you use spray-painting a wall,

and a floor,

and a ceiling,

when you are aiming to paint a wall.

Aim to maim, they used to say in the pizza delivery business.

In another day, another dollar world, you find yourself a quarter shy,

again.

Like how words must feel about letters, like the trees

feel about the ax. Don’t let your happy exterior

fool you, you’re no happier today than you were yester-

day, than you’ll be tomorrow, than you’ve ever been before,

than you’ll ever be

again.

You can spend a lot of time wondering why you spend so much time

spending time wondering: go ahead, but you are only

feeding other insecurities under the guise of nursing your own

doubts, your own concerns, thoughts spreading, diverting,

digressing, converging,

merging, this guise masking why I would forget that this is angry,

not a paean to your sovereignty, not a psalm to your prambling,

but a left turn at Albuquerque you forgot to take, so pretty

you are, taking the bull by the horns,

where your wonderings become a wander,

a search for the new path your letters

believe themselves to be inventing

again.

To be invented. To become to believe.
It sucks when your metaphors fail you. Fail better than you.

You don’t have to take my word for anything, you are free

to look at the scattered ruins of relationships you’ve left

in your wake, each one centered around a common

denominator of you. I don’t believe that I’m making

this up, but I’ve nothing to prove

that I’m not.

So it goes.

M---

Spare Words