Animal. Me. That intelligent malagmity. Moby Dick and Donald Trump and Ferris Buehler and me and everyone between times three. A moment’s notice in a moment, missed it. Caught looking –over there. God’s hand at justice, the opposite: hands-on. Irascible. Some men go bowling. Other men stay at home at a window watching for what’s coming, listening for their mobile phone. In all fairness my older poems were more publishable, marketable, and I was still unknown and alone, that was a long time ago. Animal. Man. Unknown. Lost. Prone. My brain is dying from those around me and their’s shirking and they can’t understand it, and I can’t explain it any better or expand it. There are no more people to avoid or unfriend or be afraid of. No more. I am more defined by my paystub. Only people, like robots, but with subjective morals and fragile rules and safe things to say everywhere about everything every time. Animal. Umbilical cord. Blood. Pain. Passion. Please tell me to act better, but no one tells me to be me better and do what I believe better and be free better, only explain what I mean better. I better I guess. Some say be at ease but… And I should know better about how Shakespeare said the whole world is a play, or something like that. Animal. Actor. Father. Dad. Boy. Man. Child. Prisoner. Observer. Provocateur. God. No one. Neighbor. American. Writer. Reactor. Patient. Person. Colleague. Victim. Happy. Thinker. Doer. Innate. You. And still I’m always changing, so I might be something else too depending on when you see me next and how my day went.  


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