Untitled
I owe too much to those I’ve stolen from.
I’m a thief of stories
Didn’t you know that?
And more importantly
Do you care?
I’ve watched each one wilt into the dead soul
Of comedy.
You need to handle them as fine china
and with a master’s green thumb
designed
to make an ascending wilderness grow.
Holding back each story
Is not unlike keeping a sharp stone
Under your tongue.
Sure you can do it
For awhile
But sooner or later
Your mouth will bleed.
Not with blood
But with words
Which flow like heavy traffic on 11th Ave.
Just before rush hour.
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