“sure, i can talk about ego in
 poetry,” said the baby
 who pooped his diaper.
 whose mommy is sliding the cold
 wet towel all around his bum,
 dipping in and out of heaven
 in quick, sloping, stressed circles.
 the baby said, barely,
thru the euphoria, "egoooo...is...
 just something that we all feel, men!“
and then,
 "i can’t seem to find the words, but we
 just feel it, yea?
 maybe i can say…
 it’s the reason why we don’t 
 do things 
 anymore, yea?
 as opposed to…maybe in the past…
 it’s why we did do things?
 ego was a cause of action?
 if true at all…i mean what do i know
 about ego?
 as a baby, you know?…i think 
 this applies only to 
 a certain type of people
 who could:
 take a good moment to decide
 which of two lights to put on?
 the four in the ceiling?
 the circular ones
 that would be cooler if they could
 fade
 up and down?
 remember new basements in old houses?
 or
 these people wonder...should they flick 
 the other switch?
 maybe a modern
 white
 ceiling lamp...soda-bottled like a bitch’s
 flea collar maybe...a neck-cone so a puppy
 won’t lick its hot-spot anymore?
 by her asshole, maybe!
 these are maniacs who...
 think...which light should like...
 light their movie?
 their opus about their opus
 about
 sitting with one of two patterns of light
 on their bed,
 setting the scene for an 
 all night WordPress sesh, yea?
 get high, maybe
 compose
 a masterpiece?"
later,
 "they’ll read it aloud you know!
 someone who’s nervous, yea.
 no one will like your opus poem.
 it’s honest
 about the sad half of everything,
 when you’re all alone
 home from work,
 and your phones ringing…
 and...
 everyones crying
 at your funeral
 and you can’t be there
 to explain it was all
 a joke”
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