It's the seventh day of the year and I must hire
a mariachi band from Aguas Calientes
to explain "sadness" to me. To teach me grief.
To know pain from injury, frustration from disappointment
rage from anger, fear from caution, angst from heartburn;
It's the seventh day of the year and I must hire
A beautiful blonde with blue-green eyes and red lipstick
to teach me how to hurt with eyelashes and smiles
to explain "sadness" to me. To teach me grief.
To afford me the opportunity to see the heartbreak in her tears.
(Should she suffer, should I cry for her?)
It's the seventh day of the year, and I must hire
a muscled man. a strong man. one that has built muscles, in short
one who has ached enough to know ache from sorrow
to explain sadness, to teach me grief,
to guide me through the tender spots in great armors
to overcome and brutalize and weep softly for his lost pink balloon
Sorrow pervades all, I can smell it in every single person's sweat.
Is it fearsome? Is it crippling?
-- since it's the seventh day of the year I must hire women, men,
to explain sadness and teach me how to grieve.

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