Dreamed 1982/5/12, poem 2015/4/16-18
For Robyn Hitchcock, songwriter of "Man with the Lightbulb Head"
An article claims we'll all soon take
like fusion and Mars (hey, and when
Two rich men took me out to dine.
It's a chain of spindle-pods like big
on the ground floor, but my two
Dizzy, I blink. And now I see...
Ideas incandesce, but just two moods--
I pull with all my frail. The vertical train
Gush at my knee, and my friend's light-
down the shaft. By me, his torso tall
No--bulbs cup only vacuum. Our souls accrue
These new Mood Elevators suck.
Picture your oncologist saying this, after his first drug fails to slow the tumor. Thus medicine dumped me.
I'd been allergy-tested and told I wasn't gluten-sensitive, but just to be sure, I quit eating wheat oats and barley for a week. The pain stopped. Ate them again. Pain. Quit for good, the pain went away. For good.
Too bad doctors haven't.
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