Infinite monkeys hugging it out

But for the butterfly in China,
I’d be on Delancey, leaning on the mantle
watching the pendulum of the clock
and not electroshocking myself
on the plush carpet beneath
a bell tower, having successfully
contaminated the national postal service
with a slow burn, a gut reaction,
a compass with no morals attached.
I was almost a real girl on a bus
on my way for ice cream after being
propositioned by a sad turtle
but instead became a ripe tomato-woman
with lists and limbs in other dimensions
skimming through days like they’re
an index to the Big Solution,
which may or may not be true,
depending upon your fantasy.

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