It’s like who I am

is who I be

when I’m walking the talk,

yet who I am afterward,

must call up to Whom.

Four fits mid dream late last night,

I’ve got Saturdays to take out for lunch,

Tuesdays to revel in philosophical relief,

Wednesdays to consider four-fifths of probabilities.

Fridays, I take in my hands

and pencil me in myself for

Monday to grapple

the lofty idea of Whom

it is I’m talking to.

A haywire argument.

It’s my ego in a bird’s nest

plotting disaster.

It’s got six monkfruits

and a belly of lead,

and for the first time,

I understand self-defense

in the way of the defensive

and the overspoken.

It walks towards me like a duck

so I deduce my introspection.

I pick up my guitar

and start strumming,

quacking for bread.

“Open up your eyes little darling,

Let’s pack up your things and go…”

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