hair

If you return to me, the first thing

I would do is get a shave. My hair

is the length of years I have sat here and waited.

It has grown so long that

people five blocks away are complaining

about it. People in China are complaining about it.

In the news yesterday, they featured that old

man in Nantucky, who's saying over and over 'It's itchin'

pretty darned bad!'


Close your eyes when you

think of me. Do not revert to the last time we saw each other

for much has changed. Now, they call me the man of the newest millenium.

I am now everything you have ever wanted.

Whenever I am tempted to look into myself, to see

if the old me is still there, I shrug that

longing off. See, everyone else is changing to suit

everyone else's needs. We are

detergents, improving brands of soap.

Don't feel bad; I am close to fitting in where you are.



Hurry quick, love. Be safe, be true. If minutes

continue to run, all this hair will reach my heart. I will not be

responsible for its twisting

and turning, its strangling hold. If it

succeeds, trust that I will no

longer be here. I will be a figment of your imagination,

the way I have always been.