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Aubade for an Egocentric Hypocrite Who Thinks Heís Deeper Than He Is

by the time I unfold myself from dreamless sleep, puffy-eyed and dizzy
youíre already on the floor in the lotus position,
scribbling poetry in your journal made from recycled paper
and bobbing your head to Coltrane on your walkman.
you barely glance up as I roll over into your vacated space,
hoping your poem might be about me but knowing
that itís actually some new transcendentalist theorem you calculated
while kissing my eyelids last night.

I donít bother speaking
so as not to interrupt your connection with the Muse.

sometimes I wish she
was flesh
and I
was her.

29 May 2002