There comes a time in every man's life

    when he thinks： I have never had a single

    original thought in my life

    including this one & therefore I shall

    eliminate all ideas from my poems

    which shall consist of cats， rice， rain

    baseball cards， fire escapes， hanging plants

    red brick houses where I shall give up booze

    and organized religion even if it means

    despair is a logical possibility that can't

    be disproved I shall concentrate on the five

    senses and what they half perceive and half

    create， the green street signs with white

    letters on them the body next to mine

    asleep while I think these thoughts

    that I want to eliminate like nostalgia

    0 was there ever a man who felt as I do

    like a pronoun out of step with all the other

    floating signifiers no things but in words

    an orange T-shirt a lime green awning

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