the beautiful neighbor

I am so

effortlessly self-amused NOT
by the limbo-low dive bar of my revolutionary
self-induced delusions of adequacy in terms
of standards (to wit: as a banner unfurled
heralding the absence of, which has just
'cause no reason, really, just about left
none of us wanting the lack thereof
added to our calculations, or even
subtracted from them in the slightest:
FINE. It's ok. It's only two of your cents,
leaving with you none but then - I didn't
ask) but also, even primarily the facts

themselves, which - evident as they are,
can hardly be called mute on account of
the ludicrous dumb ass testament they

so-called leaped up full of GOOD NEWS,
signed in sealed miracles, attested by
the undetectable remains, in some case,
fossilized in a wide-eyed jump

of disbelief, witnessed by all,
since roundly denied as a joke - but

- and it's a big bouncy fundament! -

which every single one of us swears
hand smack flat upon the cover on, raising
up the other hand to please, pull the other
one, the very cover of the book we all heard tell

us: "Don't judge, bud, but"

isn't that a hypocrisy or some such? Right
on the cover! What a good, bookish move

but is it reliable? What does it think who
we are is it really even trying to prove?
Really trying, I mean? But

that's not the reason either.

I'm so easily self-amused because,

I'd be a fool not to, and hypothetically a fool
anyway (don't fight it! It's hypothetical, kick
a fuss and who knows what happens next! You
hypothetically could be part of a thought experiment

tied to the tracks, and - oh snap. The Neighborhood

of Make Believe, next stop - there's the light at the end

of your live, oncoming jauntily and tooting and -

no one at the switch. Must of woke
up, obviously this is all a dream but

the trolley seems so convincing and I wish

King Friday hadn't staked his reputation so hard
on making the trains punctual. I'm about

to find out why
the hypothetical game

is not ruled by any
but the sportiest type guy

imaginable. Nice! Where does that leave me up
in the stands cheering in one-man waves,
shaking the bleachers with my stomp stomp
CLAP singing buddy your a rum man gin man
whisky on the side beer chaser upskirt glace

whoops

the second stool to the left just angled under
the wrought-iron upwardly spiraling staircase

can give you a real case of the glares. I recommend
the occasional proximate location of temptation be
moved around more. Make it harder. That was too easy
to give into and really? She wasn't, no she wasn't
asking for it jerk. Self-jerk. Nothing but J'accuse

and that plus jack is still worth jack you know,
(potentially a superior sort, thinks he beats
the jack you don'ht hands down) look

See?

I slip when I'm not paying attention and
I take it all in strut, more of a jive
ass honky rooting tooting his horny
little caboose dragged backwards

and OUT THE DOOR, where I really needed

to go anyway, but, I'd have professed a pronounced
preference for restrooms than an open-air promenade,

for example - and I fine one I have made upon it.

Don't mind me, I am drunk on water and I very much touch
the stuff illiberally, or is it inconservatively - too much!
Either way I mean to say that embarrassing enough,
to my shame, naturally not really, but - I just
completely forgot the reason I am so self-amused.
It doesn't even seem tenable to venture a tremulous
case for it, let alone perch such porcelain doodads
as I collect and dignify with the name "memorabilia!"
(beautiful name for a newborn baby girl, isn't
no well, maybe) There's no name or for that matter
concept for the kind of abashed bull I pull through
the whole China shop out of sheer curiosity, like
Sherlock Holmes, dying for a peek at the clues. True,

the real conundrum to beat all is how my neverlasting
humiliation (immodesty, arguable suits me to so fetching
a 't' to the extent that I have to wear clothes,
I like them to say something about me, pretty loud
and garish - it's a fashion alert! Violation is
a transgression of the kind of subversive tricks
I pull from the racks and scatter all over so
I can shuffle-walk on wool and try to hone
my static electricity charge. But the point:
because it is so large and immodest as I am,

now and then, I pretty much need to indulge
myself in some shocking humiliation or two.
Preferably my own. I need to humilitate
against yourself humilitantly and STILL)

doesn't stick. It never does. And so I sigh,
as Tokyo sighs for Godzilla. Just that immense
and ill-advised, sentimentally. You can hear me sighing
a mile away, rush to ask and refrain - just from the look

in my eyes and to the thrilling extent

That I am,
That I am, not
merely in word, but
indeed, thought and action,

meek. Surprise!
It always has been to me, too, yet there it is. Inescapably,
insouciantly louche and lounging leaned back near a building

but - not touching it. Just that aloof, with a half-cigarette
turned to smoke and idly musing, out loud, to one's self at one's
self with the whole wide world, that say maybe somebody should die

for no specified reason, but boredom is a pretty good bet,
from the tone and cut of renaissance laissez-faire

this man of the world so barely puts on, carelessly,
before gaily skipping breakfast and so out the French
doors to bullmerde the boulevard in passing, which he

only he

can do standing still not even lifting a muscle to
scratch an abstract and absent itch on his smooth face
of considerable cheek. Deadpan with an disinterestedly

head chef attitude, like he knew the recipe before
the invention of ingredients. Which for all we know,
no, he didn't.

Compared to that guy, I'm meek! You know
really meek enough to inherit the whole fucking earth
in accordance with God's venerable and most
recent, still-current will with a shot of
testament on the side - I accept it may

by no means the last. Besides. I'm getting above
my station, here, barking out wares to the wily limit
of my unruly wiles, what's for sale? TICKETS! Tickets
on the main event me! Selling tickets on my self, but

At what cost?

Oh, why do you ask?

The answer is dignity. Have you to spare? Are you
perhaps free on the day! Look.

It's
a treat! No,
tricked you it costs fifty dignity dollars, but
with the look you have all over you at the moment
- hey were you in the spiral staircase bar the other
night, 'because I think I know something about you

quite personal but giddyap! I'm feelin' horsey
and chivalrous as always used to and still do! I had
a stable upbringing, fed on soft fresh hay and hoo
wee! Slops, but we have to agree not

to show up all
little miss not-so-innocent spectator and me,
her impossibly obtuse at both ends bystander,
designatedly bystanding alone to keep fast
by her side (it does take some catching up
quick) in the nick of time. No particular time.
A good time! But in any event of a fictional
emergency calling for superpowers neither of us

have. Well, there's a number you should call for that.
I saw it in - look, not stalling, but - a not-so-secret
not-so-government lavatory they had partitioned into

tall cubicles. Workstations. Openly available, just
in case - and therein was the number to call.

Holy shit it's yours! What DICK
LOOK
I'm sorry I even brought it up, don't even
look at it. Pretend it's so not even dog-beg insistently
there.

That's disrespectful. That
is what I'm saying: we have to agree
not to go there and be that way, like that. It's a fact
that is not what these tickets are meant to grant such
open and disparagable personal admission to. Watch the game.

Make free
with your hands, ok, if needs
must needs must but eyes, dear, down there

somewhere within the area marked out as
the playing surface, dear. See all those lines?
It's a pattern or something. What does it mean? And WHY
is it the peak of admirable for so many fools
to watch GROWN MEN chasing and hitting each other after a

CHILD'S TOY, for whatever they think they're supposed to do
with their temporary and fleeting possession of it, or

try? You and I see myself as well see eye to eye, pretty
much, I see. You have pretty eyes. Please.

On the field.

You know what?

I just remembered what I was originally on, with this
reason I'm so easily self-amusing bit. It's twofold:

1. There is none. And
2. I'm not.

No wonder I couldn't see as hard as I looked,
inwardly even, outwardly all over the place and, odd,
nothing. Nothing coming back to so much as ring a bell,
run away again, nothing.

There isn't anything amusing in and of self! Shit
sure not mine! I've never been easily self-amused. I've
never even be self-interested! I take a disinterested

(which whispers of trustworthiness!) look in the mirror
on the way out the door after skipping past breakfast
(well, its uncleaned up remains, later on for that)

and out the door and there!

It's OUT THERE that's amusing. AND interesting. Riveting.
Confusing and wonderful, not yourself! Wait - actually
no definitely your self, but obviously less so to you
as an object of interest, knowing it half to death

already. Slow down.

I just misremembered it, what was so notable
- probably by not bothering to look too close,
which makes sense in the light. I'm not and have never been easily

self

amused, just, you know. Remarkably easily amused.

It amused me. I don't. How could I? My mind is a pretty
big
tipoff to the twist ending, twist middle, twist
beginning, shall we?

It's cool. No need to.

I find it worth the ask to know. Truth is better than anything
you could make-believe into a kingdom and run some puttering
homicidal trolley through it massacring puppets, innocently

relaxing on the tracks, in defiance of signs and wondering what
the clearly posted table of places and times

could possibly be worth amounting to. Well that's the difference!
Between me and a puppet and you,
I do!
And you may.
But they need help. NOW!

FAST!

And LEAP

to the rescue!
Ahhhhh, just kick the trolley
over. It's a child's toy, albeit
a valuable piece

of memorabilia.