There comes a time in every man's life 

when he thinks: I have never had a single 

original thought in my life 

including this one & therefore I shall 

eliminate all ideas from my poems 

which shall consist of cats, rice, rain 

baseball cards, fire escapes, hanging plants 

red brick houses where I shall give up booze 

and organized religion even if it means 

despair is a logical possibility that can't 

be disproved I shall concentrate on the five 

senses and what they half perceive and half 

create, the green street signs with white 

letters on them the body next to mine 

asleep while I think these thoughts 

that I want to eliminate like nostalgia

0 was there ever a man who felt as I do 

like a pronoun out of step with all the other 

floating signifiers no things but in words 

an orange T-shirt a lime green awning