Monday, July 26, 2010


I don't think I'd wanted to be someone else,
just myself, except better,
except better meant something
other than myself,
a muscle-and-bone matrix
of finite mass and mutability.
Sit down and have a beer;
let us speak of the ridiculous people
who think about these sorts of things
as I do, whose dreams become
the preferred altar of worship,
because only dreams exist without
the connective tissue
that keeps us on a loop
between the house
and the office
and the grocery store.
"But I just want to love," you cry,
"a family, a place to eat!" No matter.
You will remember you are fine soon
and soon forget.

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