the next door down, the one with poetry and paint on the doorknob

i think i will.

i want the door past political correctness, coolness and big daddy government,
past no cigarettes or coca-colas or white shoes after labor day.

i want to cough my way past the smoke and lies

and find the people with paint y life under their fingernails,

people with ideas bigger than botox and what their next tattoo should say;

say adios

to small conversations discussions gossip conjecture wishful thinking

about who's divorcing who this year,

which will change next year anyway,

musical chairs

and ring around the rosy

and

all

fall

down.

'scuse me while i kiss the sky.

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