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I Want, I Am

A dyslexic in an alphabet reversed,
the universe looping both flaccid and disjointed:
noodles, macaroni, dot, dash,
a Morse code, impenetrable except for instances
the rest tramples.

So frustrating to feel stupid when knowing
what’s seen is wholly true, only scattered apparently,
like running back ‘n forth with a sieve to catch falling lives.

There are so many and, intermittently, paralysis cramps will,
confidence, unless managing to duck under props—–
the class clown, star athlete, home beauty queen benched
during exams, shyness, panic
swallowing swallowing any chance
for the bouquet parade.

What next then—
Though cramped, the appetite continues expansion
with I want, I am,
if not suffocated, an implosion
in the pigeonhole quad.

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