Do not tack the door shut,
however tentatively put; I'm
moving. No not outside but
in a circle, and constantly.
I am not so easily distracted
by flashy movements and
new shapes, primary colors,
or cyan and magenta and black.
A recalcitrant fatherly figure,
who spent all his time brooding
was awful, and overly maudlin
and loving, but knowingly bitter.
[Note: I would just like to point out to family members who may be reading this; this poem is not about my father. It's about postmodernism, believe it or not]
