My gut - a "he" for some reason - is wearing a top-hat and tails, and an exquisite red vest. He has a fancy waxed moustache that I've never seen before. There's a blackjack in his coat pocket. He drives a team of horses; they pull a fancy carriage of some long-ago vintage, gleaming with polished metal trimmings. One minute, I'm sitting in my office, in the Obfuscation Department at the soul mine; the next, I'm the passenger in the carriage, lost in dreamland, with a blackjacked lump on my head. I open my eyes on occasion, and I see little stars encircling me. I hear birds, excellent birds, three little birds tweet tweet tweet but it sounds oddly like "Inarticulate Speech of the Heart". I don't know where I'm going. I try to sing along, but what comes out is "I am the passenger", in my best Iguana profundo, then I forget the rest of the words and slip back into a mute daze. I'm a soul in wonder.


sober, rational thought,
once a source of pride, was
stolen by some thief who knew my love for Grace
-- he whistled "Unlimited Capacity" as he
slugged me with a blackjack
and the whistled notes floated above me
then coalesced into that unlimited capacity
which became mine fe real mon so I
called it a fair trade but

I don't know where I'm going

chastened by many past mistakes,
almost as unwitting preparation
for a chance to get it right

tongue tied down by open-ended
obligations I pray will end soon
or my heart will break

naturally sweet, maybe sickeningly so,
with a soupçon of piss'n'vinegar,
a dash of cayenne;
an acquired taste,
but clown is good food

few have driven me to bad "poetry"
take a bow

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