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There are two things, and only two—
Me—and the persistent stupidity of you
Who insists on some kind of interest in me.
What an idiot you are; you read my poetry.
“Some kind of interest” is a really ugly phrase
But you’ve been poking around my pages for days.
I don’t suppose you know how much I dislike you.
I like myself—when I take walks, who do you think I’m talking to?
You bought a 300 year old house and can’t glue a tile.
You’re happy—not having fixed anything in a while.
When I try to fix something you become enraged—
Instead of being grateful, you’ll tear out the page.
I’m faced not only with stupidity but stupidity hateful and odd.
You thrive. How? Only by the grace of God.
“There are two things.” I was dreaming this idea
In such a manner I lost it when I woke up.
I am more foolish and idiotic than you,
Writing dumb poetry at 3 AM:
“There are two things, and only two.”
Well, your stupid pets woke me.
Yeah. That’s what they do.
But I’ll go right back to sleep.
Later, a long walk in the fresh air,
Talking to myself. Have you guessed myself is you?
I’m going to ruin a perfectly good poem
By defining reality’s two things—
Past and present? Oh. No doubt.
No. It. And me trying to figure it out.
