DJ Dave's Convert Strays

I am acting out.
I am sick sick sick of hothouse conventions.
Overpolite
Strictures dictating
Acceptable
Behavior

Who is the boss of me? Not you!
Not the keepers of the flame!
Whoever said good fences make good neighbors
should have stuck with apple-picking.
So what if he was right? He was
frosty at the soul, his heart encased in ice.

I am the fire this time, and you can’t keep me
Down. There is something that doesn’t love a rule.

I am the boss of me. I say, let ‘er rip!
Are you taken aback?
You measure out your life with coffee spoons.
Bite me.
Tonight I act

out!

(And how should I begin?
Quickly now, dive in!
There will be time to wonder “Do I dare?” and “Do I dare?”
There will be time to fix my hair.
And later, eat a peach.)

Tonight
On the polished wood floors of #6 Downing
A new tattoo of footsteps.
In the elegant rooms below, a woman looks up.
Her tiny dog gives a civilized yip.
She arranges a pillow, throws off her shawl,
Returns to her picture book, Michealangelo's art
She bought for her coffee table but much enjoys
By scented candlelight.

Music flies out the window, into the trees.
I am my own damn dervish. I whirl to the beat of my very own drum.

French blues. Motown. Windham Hill. Celtic crap. Bach.
DiSarli, take a seat.

Don’t tell DJ Dave.

Read earlier post: DJ Dave Makes a Convert
Read about coffeespoons, Michaelangelo, peaches etc: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock