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Page 13

I'm tired of being an idea (if not dry ink)
on a page. I'm going to come to life.
I'm ready to make that leap. Here I come:


(Where am I? What is this? An inner ear?
Someone's brain? Did I splat against
your lamp bulb like a moth? Where the hell
am I?? Whose mind is this? Who do you think
you are, anyway?) (With all due respect.)

The trouble with leaping off the page
is that ideas and characters leap
all topsy turvy and hugger mugger like fleas,
never knowing where they'll land (comes
of my being so flippant).

I imagined flipping into the mind
of a lean, tough, pipe-smoking man
of few words. But this could be a plump
giggly girl who thinks this is really
neat stuff or maybe not giggly, but skinny
and sullen, her eyes gothically black-circled,
thinking "whatEVer!" or "heLLO?"
(I'm ten years behind in my ideas
of hip sarcasm.)

Or maybe I landed on your carpet
and am about to have an unpleasant adventure
with your cat...

Oh, I want to be back on my page
with the book closed shut: BANG

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