To whom ever is out there,
Who remains unconcerned, Unperturbed,
This is a postcard from a roadside attraction, I picked up the send your way, to commemorate
The Last Place I Forgot Where I Was
It’s not to say, “Wish You Were Here”
It’s not to ask you, should you care
If you might tell me how to send this note
With some voluminous green token of envy, like hills of grass waving in a light sunswept breeze,
to signal to you in your rest and ease,
That you are the mind state, recovered, which I wish, why, wherefore, here, to for– , to SEE
It’s just a funny picture of a man without a head
He’s become ALL HAT, like a surreal photograph
of a Magritte
Do not worry, at least
Not yet
‘ce n’est pas moi’
I haven’t the control the recognize, I have no such comfortable stance, to use my head for less than a hatrack,
I, as I struggled to say, and sent even less, I don’t know
Where I’m At
The man who pumped the gas,
Revved me up by offering me a complimentary map
He suggested I change oils
Washed the viewscreen
And kicked my tires
If, behind the wheel, I had his enthusiasm, his go-get-em-cheer and vapid smile,
Like a spokesperson for industry and fuel and that stealing-copper-wire-from-the-walls-toothy grin,
I might discover in myself some place to go
And a turning point inside me pivots on a shame
I understand
This is the first step
The Haunted Typewriter 