THIS IS A POEM ABOUT A GOLD BRICK AND THE CHOSEN ONE 8.3.17

8.3.17

THERE WAS A MAN

WHO POOPED OUT GOLD,

A GOLD BRICK,

PLOP,

JUST LIKE THAT

EXPELLED FROM OUT

HIS ASS

INTO THE TOILET.

HE STOOD OVER

THE BOWL AND PEERED

INTO IT, STUNNED,

REVELATIONED,

GALVANIZED.

HE TOOK

THE BRICK TO AN

ASSESSOR. “THIS

IS REAL,” THE ASSESSOR SAID.

HE CARRIED THE GOLD WITH

HIM LIKE AN INFANT,

WRAPPED IN A BLANKET

AT HIS ELBOW JOINT

AGAINST HIS CHEST.

HE TOLD HIS FRIENDS

OF THE GOLD BRICK,

SHOWED IT OFF AT PARTIES

TOOK PICTURES WITH IT,

CALLED IT INTO LOCAL

AND NATIONAL NEWS STATIONS.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK THIS MEANS?”

A REPORTER ASKED HIM.

“THAT I AM CHOSEN,” HE SAID.

“FOR WHAT?”

HE SAID HE WOULD DISCOVER

HIS PURPOSE ONE DAY.

DAYS PASSED, WEEKS,

MONTHS AND YEARS, AND

YEARS AND YEARS, AND

THE MAN AND HIS BRICK

KNEW NOT WHAT EITHER

WAS DOING ON EARTH.

THE MAN GOT MARRIED

TWICE, THE FIRST TIME

TO A WOMAN WHO LOVED

HIS SOUL (SHE DIED OF A

CANCER THAT ATE HER JAW)

AND THE SECOND TO A WOMAN

WHO LOVED HIS GOLD BRICK

(SHE LEFT THE STATE ON A

METHAMPHETAMINE HUNT).

THUS HE WAS ALONE. HE

DIED AT THE AGE OF SEVENTY-

SIX FROM LIVER DISEASE,

WHILE SITTING UPRIGHT IN

A CHAIR, THE BRICK IN HIS LAP.

HE WAS CHOSEN FOR NOTHING.

HE NEVER SHIT OUT ANOTHER

GOLD BRICK, AND THE ONE GOLD BRICK

HE DID EXPEL REMAINS TO THIS

DAY IN HIS SKELETAL LAP, IN A CABIN

IN NORTHERN CALIFORNIA, WHERE

NO HUMAN HAS STEPPED FOOT

IN EIGHT DECADES.


Written at 10:12 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA. 

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