you may love a man or you may love his teapot
i’m trying to learn how to do things. but in the meantime i fumble. as if any gesture matters or as if all gestures don’t. here is not the man i love but his teapot. it is new. something to make whistle. i do not accept it if men whistle at me in the street but if their teapots whistle at me from the kitchen. that is just fine, to be called to action by a teapot. hot water: i think since all time all people have bowed before this simple miracle. imagine if it didn’t work this way. thank you prometheus….”seems that all i really was doing was waiting for you”– says regina.
massive missive 
September 15, 2008 at 1:15 am |
I was waiting for you too. Seemed like a long time at times, but now my teapot is your teapot. It whistles out loud for you every day. Sometimes it makes a bluesy humming noise, like a single note held on a harmonica. You’re not like a single note, but you are held.