What had once been Fantasia afflicts me with dullish aphasia:
can’t speed through the hatch and be free anymore:
can’t locate the latch and the key anymore. The flow is shut off;
the show is cut off: I’ve rammed to the end of my cranial meat;
must defer to a sense beyond sense that entreats me to trust
the grand slam. As usual, no one's at bat. I'm tired of that.
Mammalian perceptions, revealed as a sham. (I am that I am.
So what.) So last night I stole into the Met where I met a small
Pharaoh whom I also stole to take home and to talk to. But I kept
saying things for which he didn't care, pompous ass with his nose
in the air. So I fashioned him into a chair. And everything's
suddenly better. That's why I'm writing this letter.