[written early morning 9/23/2009]

I seek inspiration sitting on the toilet, half squeezing out what I like to think are my obstructions.  Jung almost rhymes with dung and I don’t mean that as an insult.  But I don’t dream much anymore, or remember my dreams, or feel much inclined to turn on the light when I awaken and do remember.  For one, it might wake Geri up and I don’t mean that as an insult either.  For another I’m too tired and know I’ll already awaken and feel the need to rise a whole lot sooner than might be healthy anyway.  And what is a dream?  Even if I recall it and accurately plumb it and distill the liquor of its best message for me, it’s not like I’ll listen or drink it or be what it seems to wish.  So why bother?  Maybe so I’ll father a poem like this that some might call longwinded or not a poem at all.  You can’t have dung in a poem, particularly if you rhyme it with Jung — or so some say.  But’s that’s okay.  I need to wipe now anyway.

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