When I look at a monkey,
according to Darwin, father said,
I’m supposed to see man
in his infancy, living in caves,
not yet the inventor of the wheel.
But what I see is the cage
preventing him from obtaining
freedom. When I look at you
I don’t see the beginning of men,
but rather its end. I keep wishing
you can see your cage, the bars
you’ve created by not having enough
confidence. Your spit is as wet
as any other man’s. The only
difference is he keeps his inside
his mouth where it belong and yours
slip out, changing its essence, becoming drool.
Heavy on Adverbs
I know what’s wrong with you,
father said, lack of adverbs.
You never use them. You act
like the typical waiter at a Chinese restaurant,
agreeing with every selection
of the customer’s order, never once
asserting yourself, like recommending
garlic shrimps. If the customer
doesn’t like them, it’s not your problem.
It’s time to call in the taste police.
There’s nothing they can’t fix
by adding some hot sauce. It’s
like modifying the verb,
not leaving it bare for all to misinterpret.