Epigram ‘n Aphorism Samwiches

My Aim Is True

When your eyes narrow, I see
limited window of opportunity
to take my shot,
but not to kill,
and not to maim
that tender, inflating ego,
but hinder just enough.

When those slits stay open,
I still see a chance
how little missiles widen those whites,
inject knowledge like some serum you’re denying.
Fired, point blank, in your direction,
you might run and shelter,
cast dispersions like hurled rocks.

I don’t have Holden's hunting cap on,
not riot gear, or a madman at some mall
taking aim, gunning for a hapless victim.

But, can’t be Cupid with these tiny,
slender arrows to induce love,
nor shame innocence as a parent could,
and with little game to chase
a brightly feathered chicken clucking
like a feather-flippin' hen on fire.

I’m no flannel farmer shouldering an axe.
Just sit down there on that block
and from someone you can depend, hear
what I really intend --
truth in time-tested fables,
if you’ll hear and not coop up.
Pry open those beady eyes
that I once roused with song
and see
it’s just me,
nothing to fear; I'm just not wrong.


3.27.22
34 lines, vers libre

When the world wants to put a fence between kid and entrusted parent, one has to speak soft and very slowly. The failure to communicate has been corrupted. I'll point the finger first at people who need to sell stuff and don't whose palm they have to great to build empires within empires while families are slowly isolating, torn apart. in a nutshell-ish

they came at us sideways with mind speak = cancel culture and PC police and politics with aisle-dividing, hot button topics. Who do you root for? Ignorance, I think.

This is my soap box, but I'm off it now.