Wednesday, May 4, 2016


There an idiot born every minute,
and they all are taking my name.
I can't escape the reputation of
someone escaping a reputation.
How did I get here? The nurse in
the newest hospital, the one holding
the new baby by the garbage can lid,
she says she doesn't know but someone's
given it my name and she has to go. I
wave her off, as if to say, 'I won't
push you around either, OK?'
Some nights, I'm afraid to go to sleep,
and just wind up sitting up all night.
There are too many things to re-meet
in these dreams I keep having : that
errant knight riding a horse made of
cheese, the windmill God who draws
pictures of people in pieces, and throws
them down to make lightning. The very
big girl with snakes for hands. What is
all this, again, and why now? They're
all taking my name, even in sleep.
There's another idiot in the corner
store  -  making donuts from Turkish
Taffy and calling it an Indian treat.
I've had it before, and it wasn't that
good. He sells it for a dollar a pound,
but it used to be three. Some things
rise, and other things fall. But they're
using my name, any and all. I'm now
growing tired of the game, and I want
to move to Desmond Heights,
(if it's all the same to you)....

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