Broadcast Night Poem

I walked straight into a hole in the asphalt.
My amnesia was mostly sewage.
Every time I get sleepy in the shower,
I diagnose myself with chronic “fun” and “Malaysia.”

Since you’ve been proofreading biology textbooks,
you decided to buy a wheelchair and speech software
to roll around like Stephen Hawking, 
hiring someone to brush your teeth, so angels of mercy
can relate to your Sonicare bristles (or something).

My brains were all over the convertible
while you cashed a third-party check.
I hate being on coins in people’s dirty jeans,
and I just want the library to have a gym and stuff,
for the people, by the people, doing things for you,
myself, and the all the moon citizens too,
out there in the broadcast night 
tackling gritty tasks to combat the boredom.

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