2am and
the chronicaling begins:
nights sweats, impossible
on this coldest night of the year,
in your dream you are hunted
by feral dogs on a darkening
plain, you waken to a room
entombed in cold silence,
steal downstairs to wrap yourself
in the haze of infomercials
of sex and real estate, all
that's left to prey on
in America.
At the malls people camp
out to cash in on sales,
the hype, the hoopla, the
extravaganza--they brave
the cold and snow for the
right to capture the flag
of the vanquished merchants!
Today I did not know
who I was. I woke up
in a stranger's house
and hid under a blanket
watching the sun, drinking
their coffee, reading
their books, waiting for some
semblance of famliar
thought to remind me
of who I might be or how
I got here. I played
their music, Neil Diamond,
Sarah Vaughn, Miles Davis,
and Johnny Cash. It was the
Neil Diamond that got me,
"Solitary Man." I was
sitting in a recliner
reading a book of poems
and drinking their good
coffee when I realized
I was not in a stranger's
home at all, I was simply
turning 52.
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