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Puppet Master

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Tonight at work was dead.
I wrote and I read and I fell in love with Langston Hughes.
My guru said that if I want to improve
I need to read the classics and the greats,
educate myself in a school of my own making
where the only one taking my time wears a flower.
I need to be selfish…
What I need to do is to read more Cisneros-
I like how she made me write like a woman and painted lipstick on my notebook,
gave it high heels and dresses that showed breasts and barely covered ass.
Somehow
I got stuck with an old man who teaches class,
couldn’t tell you my name but still goes with me to bed
whispers in my head as he peeks from dirty purse.
I’ve read too much Billy Collins and now he’s stuck inside my pen-
I gorge on all kinds of cakes and he’s still all I taste
when I’m ready to begin with fork in hand.
Even this, a single sentence starts it off
every time now, without fail.
I can’t set sail in a ship that’s not of his making
even when I began by praising someone else…
I only thought I fell in love with Langston Hughes.
I would love to be used by all these old men and
the woman whose words are like Tabasco-flavored ice-cream, but
it’s clear only one pulls the strings that move my fingers.

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