There is only one of me. Should I
really get a job or read another
poem about a dream in which
there is farting in a ballroom
with a bathtub. It says here
it was Kit or (more likely)
Ron. Rising from the tub,
farting, blue powder, smell of
cauliflower and sauerkraut.
I’m trying Splenda in my latte.
Nope. I don’t think Splenda is
to my taste (a big box of Splenda
is lost somewhere in time). I’m
casting Nobody in a play by
Jack Spicer. Reading old
journal entries helps me
remember some things
I’ve forgotten.
I’d forgotten that he’d
whispered drunkenly
that night he puked at
my old place that I
should have a kid.
I grin emptily.
For the next
30 minutes,
it is 1964.
