II—The Manipulator & The Subservient

Take my advice;
tell a story.

Two men set across a valley,
have many adventures
and return home safely.

If you still have loose jaws after—
that
is the moral

there remains a cauldron
inside you—your speaking
grew less or more than you wanted

as I grew less
or more
or differently
than she wanted.

Who is she? My mother
thinks this is about her, my girl
thinks this is about her, but

the mad tongue
begs retelling; this is about a
story.

I have a sad friend [like water] who
wears a large hat to keep the sun
from his face

[I want to tell him Sing!]

and a fat friend with
a typewriter shuffling letters
that shake the sky when he reads.

[I want to catch that lightning]

And an old friend who plays
dead-fingered guitar and a

friend I’ve never met who
will not use his dying
grandfather as an excuse
to write.

[If only I had their morals]

Because here I am writing—

about them and their
dying grandfathers
and reading
about them and their
dying grandfathers
and I am
angry because I will
not hesitate to do this

even
when I still
can’t tell the story.

They understand; [I hope]
we are subservient
to what is inside.

I would
sell my grandmother for tuppence and
still try to talk my way into heaven,

as if life is just practice
for that last great excuse.

the mad tongue
begs retelling.


I changed a definite article and “am/angry” to “howl” in v1.1.

v1.1

Take my advice;
tell a story.

Two men set across a valley,
have many adventures
and return home safely.

If you still have loose jaws after—
that
is the moral

there remains a cauldron
inside you—your speaking
grew less or more than you wanted

as I grew less
or more
or differently
than she wanted.

Who is she? My mother
thinks this is about her, my girl
thinks this is about her, but

a mad tongue
begs retelling; this is about a
story.

I have a sad friend [like water] who
wears a large hat to keep the sun
from his face

[I want to tell him Sing!]

and a fat friend with
a typewriter shuffling letters
that shake the sky when he reads.

[I want to catch that lightning]

And an old friend who plays
dead-fingered guitar and a

friend I’ve never met who
will not use his dying
grandfather as an excuse
to write.

[If only I had their morals]

Because here I am writing—

about them and their
dying grandfathers
and reading
about them and their
dying grandfathers
and I
howl because I will
not hesitate to do this

even
when I still
can’t tell the story.

They understand; [I hope]
we are subservient
to what is inside.

I would
sell my grandmother for tuppence and
still try to talk my way into heaven,

as if life is just practice
for that last great excuse.

the mad tongue
begs retelling.