The simple truth is, I might have died in the act of seeking publicity. That I escaped that tragedy proves my good fortune. But I claim no credit. I lived long enough, is all, to see that self-promotion is a poison or disease that needed to pass out of my system. Whence the immunity? By what process has it occurred? I might ask the wind what it heard, and expect a similar answer.
Look Again
The blame on your hands
could be flour, in which case
I advise you, make bread.
Poems, Slightly Used, January 21, 2011
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Categories: Everything and Nothing, Poems, Slightly Used
Tags: Diaries, Journals, Poems, Poetry, The Other Hand Clapping
William Michaelian 