Poem to story? Perhaps. I spend hours over this thought. I put the writing of the story, here, on some back burner.
I move through the day. Stopped up toilet and visit from the plumber. He ended up to be some warrior one the Bush dynasty sent to war. I liked him. He knew something I didn’t know about but wished I did. We paid for an hour of his time and, once the toilet was unstopped, I directed him to our stuck disposal. He fixed that, too.
We are at odds. You suddenly want to discuss, lately, Freud. FREUD? So I say to you:
Me: I don’t care to discuss this any further with you. If you don’t want to discuss God with me, I don’t care to discuss Freud with you. Get it?
You: That’s true. They’re both somewhat gods, aren’t they?
Me: Not to me.
And we move into silence. That is best, I think. I certainly don’t care to debate Freud with you…at this point.
Once you know
how much sense does it take
to know when pictures fade
and reality sets in?
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