Monday, January 29, 2007


This afternoon I noticed my senses acutely
for they are need of sharpening.

I realize the words of my loved ones
have been at me for so long,

they are like frail nails scratching at granite.
They aren't getting any sharper;

meaning has been lost in litany;
intent has been lost in ritual.

I cry small talk is not our culture
but Confucius sticks his ugly face up,

so I will have to also sharpen my knives
dismember his fear and hatred;

throw their remnants in a pyre
that has been waiting for three thousand years.


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