I want to write about microwave ovens

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I Want To Write About Microwave Ovens, And The Fact
That I Have A Deep And Abiding Mistrust Of Men.
I-‘m Always Careful To Stay At Least 6 Feet From Their
Death Rays And Wonder If I Should Even Eat
The Damn Popcorn-Â…ponder That.
I Want To Write About The Fact That Nothing I Can Possibly
Say Will Mean Anything To Anyone In 100 Years, And That
I-‘m Ok With My Words Drifting Aimlessly Toward The Sky.
I Like To Think The Moon Swallows Them And Then Says,
-Å—that Was Delicious, But In An Hour I-‘ll Be Hungry Again.-
I Want To Write About Guilt And Redemption,
But So Far I-‘m Not Finding Any Salvation For My Sins.
If I-‘m Honest And Say, -Å—i-‘m Experiencing This, And It-‘s
Not Fixable And It Feels Really Bad.- Does That Make Me
Weak Or Strong? Does It Make Me Anything?
I Want To Write About God, Or The Lack Thereof,
Or The Misinterpretation Of Whatever Message It Was That
We Were Given, But I Wouldn-‘t Want To Be Misquoted.
I-‘ll Say A Prayer Instead, Something Along The Line,
-Å—hey You, If You’re There Would You Mind Lending A Hand? -
I Want To Write About Red And Brown Cardinals On Icy Branches,
Waking Up To The Silence Of An Early Winter Storm, The Reflection Of
A Yellow Sled On White Snow, Delicate Flakes Covering My Hair With A Frosty Veil,
And How I-‘m Afraid Your Words Will Disappear, So I Write Them.
But In An Hour, I’m Hungry For More