A Self-deprecating Sense of Egotism
Is this tweaked enough? If you’re not careful
a sense of white might happen. Shove a batch of
apples up against the juicer and do you get lemonade?
Orange juice? It’s applesauce plain and simple. Am I
calm yet? I was much better yesterday, not so gray.
Enough with the vivacious red!
Edna St. Vincent Millay is only 31 years old. It’s
snowing in the winter factory and I have a nosebleed.
Dogs make more sense. But I’m trying to balance this
skepticism with something a little more vertical. Because
Freud always delivers.
So I’ve been feasting a little bit. And after each dinner I
dissect each pratfall with cognac in a lame attempt to
heal my wounded armpits. No slave to a labyrinth
of ludicrous constructs am I!
And it seems to be working. Here at Tokyo Express.
With canned music. Which, now that I think about it
is really a Turkish pop song that came with my
very first MP3 player, a touching gift
from a citizen of Neverland.
Oh how I secretly loved him. But he had
eyes only for Tinkerbell (no matter
which way her wand pointed), so I
crushed that player with a waffle iron
and soon found myself in San Francisco.
Or was it the other way around?
Whatever the case, the music’s gone
and I’m super lousy at fatalism. It’s not
really that I’m over here trying to find my-
self in you, but who are we to know ourselves
anyway? I mean, really?
I do often wonder.