locked out of my body, again, and looking for some way
to act, think, believe--some way to do something other
than twist and wait,
like food hanged up above
the reach of bear-paws.
it's almost worse than the agony
attendant upon remembrance and acknowledgment,
this present
which is just a plain gray door,
behind which lingers
the comfortable tortures
the exquisite emotional adventures--
looking back at the torturous past
as if through a photo album, saying "remember--
remember how i endured that, and that?
remember that?"
my brain
is an idiot.
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