I sit out on the sidewalk, a drowned man
because what does anything mean? (The tree
is you) an oak, a linden--
"We are gods," they said. Joe DiMaggio is dead, Marilyn
torn into fifteen pieces, but what happened
to the two dollar matinee?
Philosophy breeds contempt and I hate
the smell of lipstick. Yet in sleep
there is solace and ordinary waves.
Press one for checking, two for savings.
Oh unconquerable glee,
the sugar grains of thought dissolve
in my thirteenth cup of coffee.
I could send you a letter, but what would it say?
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