Surprisingly, true misbehavior has, of late,
been difficult to find. Flipping pages,
I discover I am still a failure. Someone
always thinks he’s spotted a blushing rose
in my face—and I don’t argue. Many times
I have watched the pastel pigeons—
watched them dent the garden. Airborne orchids,
I like to call their lukewarm colors.
Attempting mischief, my palm
peels back pages to uncover the smallness
of an ancient forehead. I wonder if he—the first
who bore arms—smacked red out of veins,
leaving blue powder, little else.
Of course, all this
is open to interpretation—between the alphabet & the calligrapher—
that is, between the calligraphy and me.
Chapter One
Published
The Failures of a Non-Performer 