To Clean Up My Act

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 To Clean Up My Act
How do I decreep myself?
Always leaping from the dead president's
opera box shouting wild eyed liberties
to the snoring audience only to hide
in the burning barns of unkind farmers.
I long to dance at the V.F.W. and wake
to the sound of plastic bells, to punch
the clock like Joe and Louie, lugging
the news with scrambled eggs all over
my teeth, but along the smell of burning
whale flesh fouls my sleep and every blear
eyed bum about the streets is Abraham
looking for a tenth; if not normal,
at least happy, to motor behind jet
shopping carts down the stainless aisles
of meat foods, nodding to the asparagus
and the butcher's wife as well, to breeze,
a flawless specimen through auto‑inspection,
but to me the grid heart roads gag
a sigh of sexy green moan and only the naked
trees reach wide enough for their share
of the sky; plod and tromp, go and stop, left
turn right, asleep at night, a rational,
dependable, completely regular fool am I.