Sylvia Tribute
Your gassed up consciousness
strums a stream of ideas throughout societies' minds.
They are baffled. Sick.
with the disasters you so-called created.
Why must they clench onto that beautiful mess,
the kind where, paper files up, spreads out across that ceramic brown-
and you don't know if you lost that important number,
that cry out for help when you're husband is leaving you-
he's deceiving you, in the uttermost strange deception-
that you aren't sure whether to believe it or not.
Cause he is one dang good liar.
The kind you find in the jail cell, all is lost,
all is gone,
and they hold nothing, wear nothing but a mindless scrap of fabric to cover the must-
censored area.
He fooled you. And your children.
He made you believe all these things you maybe were not.
But in fact,
in the mind of a writer,
you're as normal as they get,
gifted as they come,
and you'll never, let anyone know why you think those silly thoughts,
like what time of day you'll die, no,
How you will, and what it will feel like.
You don't really care what comes out of it, but you do know that you've lived up to
your death in a manner quite maturely,
no matter what the outsiders say,
because
they cannot understand a writer.
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