Whaddaya think........?

Turn the damn TV off

Do you know what ideals

suckled the growing bones in

these hands, years in the telling? Can you

hear the distant echoes

of the pleasured sighs of the past loves

you've asked about? These hands

run their requests over your surface,

crackle with thunderous charge

enough to explode all your infomercials.

These aren't hands, they are demands.

Do you know what needs

swerved each fluid flexion of

these hands, conducting a life? Can you

feel the sleeping aches

of the pummeled blows of the past fights

you've asked me of? These hands

rerun their quests through your dales,

teach a body of truths

enough to dispel all your dramas.

These aren't hands, they are demands.

Turn off the damned TV.