no for an answer, the lifetime
guarantee for what it is, the signs
that read Closed or No Rooms
to Let at face value. I never think
I’m not up to the job, not enough
qualified, never doubt I’m the one
who may stand in front of a classroom
to teach you. I never back down, turn
around, roll over, put up when it
just isn’t the right thing to do.
History repeats itself: its lies
about luck, its whitewashes, its dull
prescriptions. I’m tired of being told
to mind my place, defer to some
old boys’ club of secret handshakes;
I didn’t sign up to take the fall
again and again for someone else.
In response to Via Negativa: Things.