cleanClean up your roomClean up your lifeOrganize the papers,One for each day you've been breathing,Laying scattered and unexamined all over the floorSort through clothesSome clean, others dirty as sinOr the crimes you unknowingly, innocently committedAgainst your lover, your family, yourselfThrow out the trashLike the month old container of fruit saladTucked under papers, not so hidden, in wishful thinkingThat it would somehow decide for itselfWhat should be done with itIt's now that you're made to payAn examined life sentenceFor all the aggravated misdeedsAnd the willfully ignorant inactionsWith hours spent locked in a roomHow can you live like this?Why do you live like this?
Blue anythingA ladybugcrawls on a piece of blue candy, devouringit with a voracity one doesn't often seein ladybugs(or anything)eating blue candy(or anything).I pick it up to show my brotherwho promptly asks:"What flavor is that?""It's the blue flavor," I say,"The flavor that blue things are, like blue Popsicles.""You mean blue raspberry?" He askswith his usual condescending sarcasm, and Imumble agreement(or anything).But I don't agree.It's something less definitive—that intangible flavor that all blue things have—yet in its own way distinct,so that even a blind man,eating a blue candy, would say to himself:"Wow, I'll bet this is blue."It's so unique that justknowing it is coming—seeing the blue whatever headed for your mouth—brings that taste to your lipslong before it stains your tongue.It's the flavor thateveryone knows but no onecan describe.