Stop Filling Holes I Do Not Have
a poem, damnit!
What can be done with this monologue-ist? Hunting around the kitchen cabinets for the stale crumbs of kisses, and white glove testing the cracks and the corners. The queen bee is barefoot and pregnant, with no time to whine, but you! Shakespearette of problematic recipes and balking blenders. We let the eggplant hatch on the stove, but by all means, tell me the backstory in detail of someone I’ll never meet, whose name I’ve already forgotten. Meanwhile, back at the ranch in my head, I read the news of myself to myself, while my ratings dip and you interrupt the regularly scheduled programming to ask a question, thumbing in a dime of ersatz interest for a dial tone of an answer from someone who’s not interesting to you.