Ernesto Trejo

Today I'll Sit Still

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Today I'll sit still.
When my dog shuffles over and offers me
his fleas and his soul, I'll turn away.
To everything I'll close my eyes,
slice the darkness and eat it.
I'll refuse to give money on a platter
or a wet kiss under the moon.
Today I'll just sit
and say No to everyone and everything.
To the book on my desk, it's sad tale
of abandonment, remorse and death;
I'll keep it on the tip of my tongue
like a lukewarm dime.
No to the daily mail with its greasy fingers,
no to the telephone and its humming
through the carcass of a sparrow,
no to every projection of the self.
No to me, this preposterous accident
who speaks of the "self."
Today I'll be anti-social.
Today I'll grow into myself, be the river
of my blood, the sky inside my eyes,
the maze of my ribs, the dust that settles
on my heart. I'll let my bones sink
like pebbles in a pond.
I'll let my feet grow roots and be an extra zero
on the checks that I'll refuse to write.

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