by Ira Sadoff
Sadoff. True Faith. Id
It comes from that voice dogs can hear, the glassbreaking high C that makes life sylphlike. Of course sylphlike's for pussies. If I say I want a dancer's body, I don't want to dance: I want to be lithe, lasting a little longer to take in the traffic jams. I don't want to look inward, reflect on, stare at my reflection, nail another deer on the mantle. Be indelible— all cobble and boarded-up windows. Dear reader, I left cupboards open for your perusal. So trespass my secrets: I have never cast the petulance aside, not even just sat with that humlessness. Can I call that my own personal abyss? I'm not exempt, I'm no special case, I won't go around with scissors and a razor blade, cutting into things, inspecting, shutting down the operation. I don't want to say nimbus when I mean shotgun. Or be my friend when I mean slip it in. Penthouse, when I mean pent-up house.