ON PLATO

Really, what you are doing

is dreaming reality.

The dream smells foul,

keeps poking at you,

makes crying, moaning sounds.

Hunger is in it, and hurt.

It makes you eat reality.

It keeps stuffing reality down throat

like a sausage and swinebraten.

The tile feels cold through your socks.

The wish is to be someplace else.

The woman you want is someone else’s.

You can imagine her naked,

i.e. her mythical forest.

What you need is money for Munich

but you don’t have any.

The train station guard

shoves you away with a stick.

You want to invoke Plato,

tell the guard you’re just a shadow,

you should ride for nothing,

but Plato’s not available.

He’s still beating the hell out of some idea

that’s beating the hell out of you.

All you know about Plato is

he was a dog you had once.

He was never alone at the age of 19

on the streets of Frankfurt , Germany

at the end of the Twentieth Century.

You’re certain he never felt

the urge to vomit this urgently.

He never lost his way

in a bathroom stall.

He never threw up

this much knowledge.

 
 
 
 
 

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