.
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.
.
.
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