I swear on paper, I'm disillusioned—
can of beans, box of pens,
home watching TV, in tight jeans,
desperate to get
a point across, a lancet
of art, a provocation—though
just a small one—like, I'll cut
your hair, or purposely
part it wrong, or something.
But everything I dish out sounds
so much like the set-up
for a joke, that it's hard
to get an argument
started. I swear I'm starting to
feel dangerous-
ly untouchable this way.
No one ever wants to fight
back against a smart aleck.
