I was awakened by a flow.
The television had been bleeding dimes.
I had spent too many days
luxuriating in its wholesome flicker.
Proletarian concerns propelled me
down hallways filmed with dusk.
I had been listening to some other voice.
I had freed myself from the grand plan.
The plane no longer included
whatever one might once
to be me.
Rummaging through flesh,
I fell down a runway,
trampling infinite machinery.
Grants would have to be written
to recover what was mine.
I was a vengeful and vindictive
son. I do not pretend to know
myself, though I do
pretend other things.
Alex Gallo-Brown is one hell of a center fielder. He lives in Atlanta.
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