you crunch like a wishbone left out in the sun
you whine like a tire losing air
you curse like an angry child
who has lost his ball
and yet your words are
ten feet tall with fists of steel


excuse me, could you please not in the least?

The mind that for,
I can only fathom a guess,
over two decades has been
for whatever ill-conceived reason
protected from harm and damage
inside a skull
behind eyes
atop a body
whose digits drum incessantly
in intrusively noisy percussive beats
upon the hard and hollow table top,
is a mind that seems to me
allergic to stillness,
averse to silence,
absent of concern,
regard or courtesy.

This mind,
this horrible and annoying mind,
may it enjoy its time
being met with kind smiles
and polite laughter for now
and may it at last and for good
meet its reckoning.

I curse you, oh chatterbox.
I curse you and hope
that both your thumbs shrivel into toes
and eventually drop from your hands
into the mud
where they are consumed,
digested as seed-pods
and grow into enormous bean-stalks
which yields nary a bean,