June 13 by The Running Son
Who am I.
Whooo am I?
Dude, this isn’t breakfast chatter,
and this ain’t no Breakfast Club,
Who am I? Who are you?
Why not explain
in a letter, or a poem like I do?
Then we’ll all know better how not
to offend you,
or send you bending up rails
to dance out that frustration,
or off rocking in fog boxes,
losing yourself in smoke, green needs,
and dreams woken
from spring seeds, and bad jokes.
Like, hey you, girl! Girly–
*snapsnap–What’s your name?
I see you hiding there.
I gotta tell you though,
you are every-thing
beneath that faded green and your sneaky
social tithing. And you, book smarty—
you live through orange peek-holes.
No mere crusts of manliness makes us.
No vain cherry topped privileges
will save us. Brains may date,
but minds relate on, over…
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