Place. Limits. Liberty.
Son of a . . . What the . . . Holy . . . !
The eyes roll.
Where’s my wanton ambling nymph?
The ghost of Freud whizzes by me.
Ignorant posteriority has its price in the enterprise of repatriation.
The indignities mount.
Is nothing sacred?
I’m in one of those ridiculous backless hospital gowns.
If it were my ankle, we’d operate.
This is what we all need now: a deep belly-laugh.
We’ll just have to muddle through somehow.
There they sit, attractive in their way.
We are a people unequal to our needs, which means we are not free.
Let us take in the full range of dumb-assedness.
Show your peacenik ID at any concession stand.
We have to do some etymological work if we’re serious about doubling our pain.
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