cold metal in calloused hands, making chip after chip after chip slowly the lines take form with hard-wrought detail, as letters go flying into your arms like tiny missiles:
the politician tells his lie the spokesman fixes his tie the musician plays his chords the construction-man nails his boards the artillery officer salutes the philosopher refutes
father keyboard, please hear my confession I didn't spend enough time with my grandma and too much with her T.V. ; I brought a knife to grade school though I never meant to pull it ;
bars and taxi-cabs, friends and highways, philosophers and arabs, the beloved counselor who'd serve me tea, the times I was jailed and the times I was freed all live on in my memory
the robotic doors open through meters of air to beckon you in to the richly packed shelves through which you must navigate and dodge sprinting toddlers and suburban anarchists