no home

Thursday, September 5, 2013

I hired a supermachine to make me less tense.
It didn’t work. What happened instead
was impossible to describe but via
dizzy allusion.
                     The guards were, thank God,
half-asleep, so my friend and me were able to wander
casually past them. Does that bother you?
The fact—maybe not the notion—but the historical
fact that we escaped (if one might call it escape)
only to lollygag in the outskirts of the farm town
from which you claim to hail, I mean, how could that
bother you, you whistler of the Internationale.
You, driver of an International. You,
Edna. My Federale—my ex.

There’s something up with your avatar, but what?
I hate it. I hate how it looks. It takes not only
forever to load but the cake. In short,
it’s you in normal mode, standing outside
the clinic, having apparently applied Clinique
Eye-Defining Duo Shadow Liner
very recently.
                     I don’t mind your Rolls,
but this isn’t about me. Nor about you. I’m talking
about the Building and Loan. Why he ever started
this cheap penny-ante Building and Loan
I’ll never know. Fraught with failures, nameable,
categorizable according to Linnean taxonomy,
Edna, like the beetles in your frock.

I don’t mean to call my own judgment into question.
Well sure, I loved you, and when things went south
I adored you even more. We’d all like to tie
this up with a ribbon and go home, but

there’s no “home” anymore. No home. Nothing.
       
       

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